


The Desk Set of Interest

by RosaClearwater



Series: The Series of Interest [1]
Category: Desk Set (1957), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: But you do have to squint to see the Shoot, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Definite Eventual Rinch, F/F, Let's mesh the late 50s with the 2010s shall we?, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12027999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaClearwater/pseuds/RosaClearwater
Summary: Sun rays beamed through honking cars, the cerulean sky smiled softly on the deranged pigeons of New York City, and the skyscraper known as Rockefeller Center gleamed in its typical, illustrious manner.Said skyscraper welcomed people of all kinds. Thousands of visitors, workers, CEOs, engineers, tourists, actors, and others graced the 70-floor building at any time of day.Yet, for all the individuals this grand structure cordially welcomed, it never quite succeeded in elegantly meeting and greetingchange.





	1. It's Tuesday?

Sun rays beamed through honking cars, the cerulean sky smiled softly on the deranged pigeons of New York City, and the skyscraper known as Rockefeller Center gleamed in its typical, illustrious manner.

 

Said skyscraper welcomed people of all kinds. Thousands of visitors, workers, CEOs, engineers, tourists, actors, and others graced the 70-floor building at any time of day.

 

Yet, for all the individuals this grand structure cordially welcomed, it never quite succeeded in elegantly meeting and greeting _change_.

 

…

 

“Penthouse, Office of the President.”

 

A tall man in a decent suit walked into the swanky hall. He had only one purpose in his mind and that purpose is what he brought him to the desk he was now approaching.

 

“Is Ingram in?” The secretary looked up, disinterested but polite enough.

 

“Mr. Ingram’s secretary is right through that door.” He thanked her, tipping his grey fedora with ease as he approached the door. Upon reaching the entrance to the office, he nearly bumped into an aging woman -- one who seemed to be curled in on herself but also carried quite a good deal of pride about herself. He could only stare in wonderment at the apparent paradox, unsure of why she was still working here if she clearly was not in her prime.

 

But, there were more important things to be dealt with, even as these thoughts made it difficult to smoothly close the entrance door.

 

“Hello,” The hat was tipped once more, a pleasant smile appearing. “I’m John Reese. Could you tell him I’m here?”

 

The brunette looked up, an equally polite smile on her face.

 

“Mr. Reese?” She asked to herself, but it was merely a stalling technique as she pretended to glance into her notes. “Well, I know Mr. Ingram has been waiting to meet with you, Mr. Reese, but you _are_ a day early. Your appointment isn’t until tomorrow.”

 

Perhaps it was because her tone held a little cheekiness to it. Perhaps it was the fact that she wasn’t hesitant to tell him that he apparently made a mistake. But, John decided he liked this secretary -- even if the two of them weren’t getting along swimmingly.

 

“It’s Monday?” He asked, briefly wondering if he was becoming too wrapped up in other projects to really note the day.

 

“No, it’s Tuesday. And your appointment is for Wednesday.”

 

_Well, this creates a problem, doesn't it?_

 

But, problem or not, it was easy to find a solution.

 

“Well, just let him know that I’m here. I can wait.”

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reese, but Mr. Ingram isn’t in just yet.”

 

“Ahh, I see.” _Another problem, then._

 

The brunette nodded at this unspoken thought, eyeing her work for a moment to reorganize her thoughts.

 

“Well, I guess we'll just have to change plans. Where’s the Research Department? Might as well have a look at that.”

 

“Research and Reference is on the 28th Floor, 2809.”

 

“Who’s in charge there?”

 

“Mr. Finch.” Now, if he at all seemed surprised by the fact that a man was in charge of the Research department instead of a woman -- especially at a such an establishment -- Reese certainly didn’t show it.

 

“Shall I write this all down for you, sir?”

 

“Sure, if you want to.” And so she did.

 

“You’re left handed,” He remarked, immediately taking this into account. She merely paused, not seeing the point in acknowledging a fact they already knew. So he continued to speak instead. “Office is all wrong for you, light comes in from the wrong direction. Desk should be reversed.”

 

But, he wasn’t really here to talk about technical issues like that. And he really didn’t need the paper she was writing.

 

And so he left.

 

"Sir?" But there was not going to be any response.

 

Upon this abrupt exit, Samantha Groves looked up from her station in faint surprise. Nobody typically cared if she were left-handed and even though her issues -- such as lighting and her set-up -- could be frustrating, it was interesting to hear someone else remark on them.

 

_What a strange person,_ She thought to herself, intrigued by this. _Almost reminds me of a certain someone…_

For there was one person that this Mr. Reese character reminded her of. Someone who was sharp and yet strangely considerate.

 

And someone who the man was about to meet.

 

She suddenly turned to grab the phone.

 

_“Reference Department, Miss Carter speaking.”_

 

“Joss? Samantha speaking. Can you hear me?”

  
  
_“Yeah, Sam, I can hear you.”_

 

“There’s a man named John Reese on his way down to see you.”

 

_“John Reese? What for? Who is he?”_  But a buzz sharply rang from her other phone.

 

“Oh, my other phone. I’ll have to call you back!”

 

_“Sam--?”_ But the phone had to be hung up. A new number was calling, after all.

 

...

 

“Morning, Mr. Finch! Going up I assume?” A familiar figure walked up to the elevator, beaming at the other man.

 

“Good morning, Lionel.” The beam softened. “And, you are, as usual, quite correct.”

 

Purchase from Bonwits?

 

_Check_.

 

An unusually cheerful Mr. Finch?

 

_Double check._

 

Lionel shook his head in disbelief, surprised that  _that_ relationship was still going on. But, the man held his tongue, knowing that he wasn't supposed to pass on judgment.

 

Even if said judgment was accurate as hell.

 

“Isn't it a wonderful day outside?” Lionel blinked at this question, remembering the grey clouds beginning to show their faces in town, the weird drop in temperature -- weird until December, that is -- and the extraordinarily obnoxious attitude many New Yorker seemed to be carrying today.

 

“Yeah, gorgeous.” By this point, others were starting to step into the elevator and the conversation was quickly put to a halt.

 

Probably for the best considering how ecstatic the poor sucker was.

 

…

 

The Reference Department was buzzing with activity as three separate clashing conversations carried on in the room.

 

“Well, do the eskimos rub their noses or don’t they?” _Of all the questions I’ve had to ask this morning!_

 

“Yes, there are certain poisons that leave no trace, but it’s network policy not to mention them on our programs.” _As much as I may or may not want to use then._

 

“And so you will call me back about the dress?” _Please, say yes._ “Perfect, thank you!”

 

Joss’s phone rang once again and as she grabbed it, preparing herself for another irritating question.

 

“Reference Department, Miss Carter.”

 

_“Sam, again.”_ She leaned forward, relieved to not have to answer another ridiculous question for the time being.

 

“Yeah, Sam?”

 

_“About this John Reese,”_

 

“Yes, what about him?”

 

_“I don’t know exactly who he is. Probably important if not just eccentric. Either way, can you do me a favor and tell me where he goes? He’s supposed on his way to your office, but Ingram will want to see him at some point.”_

 

“Will do, Sam. Thanks.” She retreated back into her work, curious but content to remain silent on the matter for now.

 

And _that’s_ when the unusual character finally entered their humble little home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, we’ve gotten to meet a good chunk of the characters, but there’ll still be some more familiar faces integrated into the story. Furthermore, there are some things that I would like to play around with -- from both the show and the movie. 
> 
> So, if something isn’t quite word for word, if a scene's been tweaked (and/or additional ones have been created), or if a character isn’t quite in-character, that’s why.


	2. "Reference, Mr. Finch speaking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who’ve read Relevance, this might seem a bit familiar if not slightly rearranged ;) :)
> 
> But, after this, it’s all “new” material!
> 
> Also, in case anyone doesn’t know exactly when this is all going it, it’s early November. In the last chapter, I realized a timing mistake and fixed it. And, so, I just wanted to state that now before continuing on.
> 
> And, finally, **the Desk Set is on both Netflix and Youtube**. So, if you want an idea of the story or if you just want to rewatch the film, feel free to do so!

John Reese calmly strolled into Room 2809, certain that he’d be facing another uncertain situation. After all, he’d never had to properly look into a research department in this kind of fashion.

 

He opened the translucent door, unsurprised to find bookshelf upon bookshelf accenting the room with filing cabinets swarming all other available space. A classy winding staircase led up to a mezzanine of treasure troves of research while three desks took the main floor of the room.

 

All in all, the space seemed to be brimming with welcoming intelligence.

 

“Reference, Miss Carter, speaking,” A beautiful, dark-skinned woman sat in the centered desk, poised and ready to recite information at a heart’s moment. She definitely had seniority over the bunch, even though he already knew she wasn’t the boss. “The highest lifetime batting average? That would be held by Tyrus Raymond Cobb with a percentage of .367….”

 

But baseball had never really intrigued John. At least, not to the extent where he’d want to actively listen to her following statistics.

 

No, John was far more interested in measuring the place.

 

And sitting down.

 

“Good morning!” Miss Carter had apparently noticed him. But, he didn’t mind the small talk even if he never really cared for it.

 

“Morning.”

 

“May I help you?”

 

“No, no thanks. Interesting place, mind if I look around a little?” But, he was already ready to get out of his chair.

 

“Not at all,” She said with a pleasant enough smile. But, her eyes held a vigilance that would’ve made the paranoid proud. “Make yourself right at home.”

 

After all, Miss Carter had just been cautioned about Mr. Reese’s presence. But exactly what she was supposed to be on the look-out for still escaped her.

 

Nonetheless, that’s why she worked in a team and not by herself.

 

The girls gathered up as soon as he was halfway up the stairs, all staring inquisitively at the oblivious stranger.

 

“What’s he up to?”

 

“Who is he?”

 

“John Reese. Ingram wants to see him. If he leaves here, we’re supposed to tail him.”

 

“Who told you that?”

 

“Samantha.”

 

“Samantha?” Shaw sharply asked, keeping that little detail in mind for future reference. But, by this point, the others just wanted to keep chattering away.

 

So much did they want to chat that they didn’t notice when Reese made it to the top of the stairs, scanning for something in particular before pulling out an old-fashioned measuring tape.

 

They continued to chatter, but soon quieted down once they noticed he had stopped in his measuring. Clearly the man was now reflecting on _something_ important and it seemed to be something he wasn’t going to share, much to the frustration of the women.

 

“Well?” Shaw could only be cordial for so long a time.

 

“Well, what?”

 

“Well, may we ask what exactly what you’re doing? You haven’t been invited to give us decorating tips, have you?” He laughed at this and refrained to give her an answer, only confirming her suspicion that there was something more important going on.

 

Unfortunately, that’s when the phone rang. Immediately, the redheaded woman in the group jolted and ran over to pick it up.

 

“Hello. Reference, Miss Hendricks speaking.” She paused before looking up. “It’s for you, Mr. Reese.”

 

He turned to look at her before heading down the stairs, a bemused eyebrow having twitched in curiosity, “How’d you know my name?”

 

“... You didn’t say it before?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh.” But he wasn't genuinely perturbed. In fact, he was already back on the main floor.

 

And, soon, the man was picking up the phone and unconsciously tuning them all out once again.

 

“Reese. Yes, well, why don’t you have him call me when he’s ready? Good. I’ll stay here until then.”

 

With that conversation over, he was back to business.

 

“Would one of you please hold this tape for me?” Miss Shaw reached for it, being the logical choice.

 

“Thank you. Would you mind holding it against the wall, Miss --?”

 

“Shaw. That’s Carter-- Miss Carter and Miss Hendricks.”

 

“How do you do?”

  
“Fine, thank you.” But once again he was really only concentrating on the measuring tape and not so much on them.

 

“All the way over against that wall, thank you.” They watched in silence, fascination expanding by the moment.

 

“What’s it going to be?” Miss Carter could no longer restrain her curiosity. But, Mr. Reese had no interest in giving any answers.

 

“Is Mr. Finch in?”

 

“Mr. Finch?”

 

“Yes, he’s the Head of Reference, right?”

 

“Right. Well, he just stepped out.”

 

“Will he be out long?”

 

“Well, no. He’s probably on the 31st floor, having a conference with his boss. Is there something that I could help you with?”

 

“No. I’ll just wait.”

 

“Well, then why don’t you step in here? You’ll be more comfortable in his office.”

 

“Thanks.” And, upon being allowed to step into the office, the measuring began once again.

 

“What’s with the tape?” Shaw asked, more cordially than Carter expected.

 

“Do you think we might be getting some art in here? You did say something earlier about--”

 

“Does he really looks like an interior decorator to you?”

 

“No, he does not!” Joss fixed the closed office with a hard stare. “He looks like one of those men who’s just suddenly switched to Vodka.”

 

And, it was on that note that their boss decided to walk in.

 

“Good morning, team.” Harold smiled, clutching his new treasure close. “Wait till you see what I procured for Monica at Bonwit’s.” But that smile immediately shifted into a confused frown as he was quickly hushed by his own team.

 

“What’s going on? Miss Carter? Miss Shaw?”

 

“Finch, you’ve been in conference all morning.”

 

“No, I haven’t, Miss Carter. You know for a fact--”

 

“There’s a strange man in there waiting for you, he’s been waiting for you for the last fifteen minutes.”

 

“Well, what have I done?”

 

“Harold,” Joss sharply inserted herself into the conversation. Being his oldest friend of the office -- and essentially his colleague rather than his subordinate -- she had no issues being blunt with. “You’re late. Ingram’s sent this guy down here. And, on the off chance he can get you fired--”

 

“Really, Miss Carter,” Rarely did Harold stiffly call her by her title these days. “I was here till almost midnight last night, and this morning at eight I had to go to IBM to see a demonstration of this fascinating new machine -- the electronic new brain -- and on my way here I stopped at Bonwit’s. So why exactly--”

 

“Mr. Finch?” By this point, Mr. Reese had stepped out of the office.

 

“Speaking.” Harold took a hesitant step forward with an unsure smile, not really sure why such a curious man would paying their office a visit.

 

“My name is John Reese.”

 

“Well, numerologically, that is a fascinating name. Nine letters.” They stepped forward, meeting for the first time and yet still smiling as though they had met before -- even if they couldn’t remember it.

 

“You calculate rapidly.” Harold chuckled at this remark as they shook hands.

 

“Up to nine, at the very least.” And at that John smiled before turning his attention back to the situation at hand.

 

“It’s a nice office you’ve got here. You like it?”

 

“Yes, I love it! If I didn’t work here, I’d pay to get in.” The genuine twinkle in Harold’s eyes grew until he remembered that he still didn’t have a clue as to what was going on.

 

“Are you from the story department, Mr. Reese?”

 

“No, I’m not.” The uncertain smile faded into a thin frown. “I wonder if we could chat in your office?”

 

“Certainly. Go right in.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

As Mr. Reese stepped into the office Harold shared a puzzled look with the women before stepping in himself.

 

Who exactly was this Mr. Reese?

 

And, why exactly did he need to be there?


	3. I'm Good with Numbers

Now, Grace Hendricks could be considered an excellent artist and even a good reference helper. But she was a horribly obvious eavesdropper and this was a conversation that John only wanted one person to hear.

 

That’s why when they stepped into the office, he made sure to close the glass door.

 

“Please, sit down, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Thank you.” They settled into comfortable spots even as a subtle uneasiness settled into the room.

 

“Now, Mr. Reese, what can I do for you?”

 

He glanced outside, knowing that this entire department was desperately curious to get some answers. But, that would have to wait.

 

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of your staff because every time I mention what I do, people tend to panic.”

 

Harold leaned into his chair, letting a superficial chuckle go at that. “Good heavens. If I may, what _do_ you do?”

 

“I’m a methods engineer.” The Head of Reference waited for further elaboration though Reese didn’t appear to have anything else to say.

 

“Is that some sort of efficiency expert?” John thoughtfully smiled at this, pleased someone knew the term even if it was obsolete.

 

“Well, we don’t really call it that these days.”

 

“Oh, forgive me, I’m so sorry. I’m the old-fashioned type.” He briefly stopped that train of thought before turning the questioning down a different path. “I thought I knew everyone in this building, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around.”

 

“Well, I’ve only been around a few times, just wandering about.” _Not only an engineer but also a deflector? Seems like a man after my own heart._

 

“Oh, I see. Sort of a migratory engineer?” At this, Reese seemed to perk up, nodding in agreement. But those eyes did not give a single relevant detail away and that frustrated Harold -- calm as he may have appeared to be.

 

Fortunately, Harold had an outlet to turn to. Something to challenge his curiosity in a familiar fashion.

 

“Excuse me, Mr. Reese.” He said as he grabbed some blank pieces of paper and a pencil. “But, what would a methods engineer be doing in our little iron lung?”

“Well, now, you’d be surprised how a little scientific application can improve the work/man-hour relationship.”

 

“Really? Fascinating.” But, then Harold paused in the conversation, before starting to write down a series of numbers. The pencil seemed to move of its own accord in the beginning, and Reese couldn’t help but stare.

 

“And time is money, so they say.” Came the slightly raspy response, which Harold hummed his agreement even though his hands were still focused on the page.

 

Reese looked up, trying not to be obviously intrigued. And that’s when he noticed the sheets of paper that adorned the wall in an orderly line. Pages filled with numbers had been strung together like pearls on a necklace.

 

“You _do_ calculate rapidly.” He remarked, noticing that Harold was still mainly focused on the paper.

 

“I suppose so.” This coaxed a more genuine chuckle out of the man. “I know it’s impossible, but I’d like to memorize as much of Pi as I can. And every time I get further I add to the wall.”

 

“... I see.” But it was pure wonderment that was dripping into his tone, not any malicious or cruel thought.

 

They were saved from any further conversation when the phone called for their attention, drawing both men from the various numbers.

 

“Reference, Mr. Finch. Yes. Yes, he is. It’s for you.” Harold handed the phone without even turning away from the latest page he’d been working on

 

“Yes? Yes, I’m here with him now. Yeah, we’re having a good chat.” John shot a friendly look at Harold and they shared another simple moment of hesitant laughter. “Well, I haven’t gotten into that yet. It’s a little too soon to evaluate.”

 

At those terms, the pencil stuttered in Harold’s hand for a second. Fortunately, it went unnoticed.

 

“But, I think we’re thinking along the same lines. Yes.” He listened to whatever was being spoken on the other end. “Alright, Ingram, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

 

And, with that he hung up the phone, spotting Harold come to a halt out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Ingram?”

 

“Yes, I’ll have to come back later, Mr. Finch.”

 

“You’ll get to Ingram’s office much quicker if you use this back elevator.” _Not only that, I’ll get my answers faster too._

 

“Oh, thanks.” They awkwardly nodded goodbye for now, and Harold closed the door before letting a sigh escape.

 

And then it was all business.

 

“Hi. Miss Groves? It’s Mr. Finch. I was wondering: what do you know about a John Ree--” But the back door was opening and the very person he was inquiring about was about to step in. “Uh- I’m afraid I’ll have to call you back with that information! Thank you.”

 

He turned to his unexpected guest, trying to deduce whatever was the matter. Upon ten seconds of not figuring it out, Harold figured he’d just ask

 

“Whatever’s the matter, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Well, I think I must’ve left my tape measure here.”

 

“What did it look like? Any particular color?”

“No, just a regular-- Oh, here it is!”

 

Why Mr. Reese’s tape measurer was in Harold’s chair, the man would never know.

 

But, at least they found it.

 

“Heh, sorry. Thank you.”

 

“Don’t mention it.” _Really, don’t mention it._ It was enough that Reese almost came back right as Harold was starting to collect information. Yet, the Head of Reference didn’t even want to know how on earth the man managed to leave a tape measurer behind -- or why it was left behind on Harold’s seat.

 

_Furthermore, what would a man like him need with a tape measurer?_

 

“Uh, I’ll see you later.”

 

“Fine.”

 

Almost as though on cue, the girls scurried in as soon as the back door closed a second time.

 

“So, who is he, Finch?”

 

“Yes, what’s he doing up here?”

 

“Yeah, what’s he want with us?”

 

“Uh,” The amount of humans suddenly invading his space grew to be a little too much for his taste. “Got a cigarette, Joss?”

 

“You know I’m trying to quit, Finch.” She stopped, suddenly suspicious. “Why?”

 

“Why not?”

 

“You only smoke when there’s a crisis. Who is he?”

 

“He- he’s an engineer.”  
  
“Oh! No wonder he was measuring the place?”

 

“Measuring?” And, suddenly, he too suspicion grew.

 

“He taped the whole layout with that tape measure of his.”

 

“He did?” While the younger girls, Miss Shaw and Miss Hendricks, were beginning to get excited with the ideas… Joss and Harold were not quite as enthusiastic.

 

“Maybe we’re finally getting that air conditioning!”

 

“Yeah. Because we should finally get air conditioning in November. Instead of, you know, June.”

 

But, much to Harold’s relief, their job was calling for them in the next room.

 

“Your phone, Miss Carter. Well, team, what do you say we give the company a little of our time? Miss Hendricks, would you like me to check any memos?”

 

“Just a few, Mr. Finch.”

 

“I’ll be out in just a moment.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

It only took seconds for Harold to sort through and recognize the _Times_ , the _Farmer’s Almanac_ , and the _Bible_ in their respective order _._ And it took him even less time to grab that dazzling Bonwit’s package he’d pick up earlier.

 

Upon closing the door to his office, a smile bloomed on his face at the sight of that wrapped up package.

 

But, those numbers were always ringing.

 

“Reference, Mr. Finch speaking. Yes, yes, I have that right here. Certainly, it’s no trouble.” He cradled the phone as he stepped over to the bookshelf.

 

“‘By the shores of Gitchee Gumee,

By the shining big sea waters,

Stood the wigwam of Nakomis,

Daughter of the moon, Nakomis.’”

 

He paused, listening to the caller. “Childhood? No, no. That comes a little farther down.”

 

“‘And he sang the song of children,

Sang the song Nakomis taught him

“Wah-wah taysee, little firefly,

Little flitting white-fire insect,

Little dancing white-fire creature,

Light me with your little candle

Ere upon my bed I lay me,

Ere in sleep

I close my eyelids.”’ Uh, you’re welcome.”

 

Clearly he had said too much, judging from the irritation of the gratitude he just received.

 

But the good news was that Miss Hendricks had to come back into the room to return some borrowed money -- and to offer her assistance with any projects, so Harold couldn’t be frustrated with his overzealous tendencies for too long.  And, since Harold recognized her ambition for what it was he was content to reward it by mentioning the possibility of her eventually receiving a raise.

 

“But, only after you’ve become well acquainted with the Reference Library.” He had said. But, even if she wasn’t an expert in a few months, he’d probably still mention a raise or some sort of increase to Monica.  After all, while consistently keeping all of the center’s office supplies in order wasn’t quite brown-nosing, it also wasn’t something everyone in the office was inclined to do.

 

_And, hopefully, this stays my office_. The dark thought snuck in through the lighthearted. And, as he glanced around the room he truly began to understand how much of a safe haven it had become.

 

Little did Harold know exactly how much would be different in only a few weeks time.

 

...

 

Sunshine glowed inside the spacious office. Grandeur flittered about the room in the form of art, a baby grand piano, and the fantastic view of the outside world.

 

Ingram’s office was, to say the least, quite worthy of someone with his title.

 

Nevertheless, John almost felt as though he preferred Finch’s set-up more.

 

“Well, the physical setup is okay. There’s plenty of room for what we need.”

 

“Good.” But, John wasn’t done speaking.

 

“However, the nature of the activity is such that the operation will be different than anything that’s ever been designed.”

 

“But, it’s not impossible, correct?” John had been scanning the various little sculptures that hung about the room when he realized he should’ve been answering the question.

 

“Correct.” He put the current statue down, stepping towards Ingram’s desk. “And, we’ve made tremendous strides in the field. Visual read-offs are now all centralized, miniaturized and set on schematic panels now. And then the data compiled is all automatically computed. And there’s an automatic typewritten ‘panalog’--”

 

“Now, I hope you realize I didn’t understand a word of that.” Nathan intoned lightheartedly, halting the one-sided conversation. John paused, trying to figure out how to properly explain this. But there was apparently no need to do so.

 

“Either way, it all sounds great. And, if you say it can be done, that’s good enough for me.”

 

“Yes, well, I’d like to hang around that department for a couple of weeks, maybe even a month, and really understand its workings.”

  
“Well, that can easily be arranged.” The phone was grabbed. “Get me Monica Cutler. She’s in charge of that department.”

 

“Uh, not Mr. Finch?”

 

“Well, he runs it but she’s his boss.” At this Nathan chuckled. “Ironic isn’t it, that a woman is a man’s boss. But, then again, _I_ am the one who hired her.”

 

John twitched, not really caring for this Monica character or Nathan’s not-so-subtle moment of sexism.

 

“Oh, let’s not bother with her.”

 

“Alright,” He returned to the phone. “Don’t get me Monica Cutler.” The phone was put down with practiced ease, and Nathan stood up.

 

“Now, there’s one thing I want you to promise me.” John glanced over at Nathan, curious. “Don’t let anyone in Research know what you’re doing. Not the girls, and certainly not Mr. Finch.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“I really don’t want them to know anything about this new change that’s coming up. It’s vital that it be kept a secret. Of course, it’s almost impossible to keep anything a secret around here. So please, no matter what happens, don’t answer any questions.”

 

“But, what are they gonna think of me hanging around there?”  Nathan laughed at this.

 

“As much as I respect their intelligence, this is one thing I don’t want them to know.”

 

“Alright, alright. They won’t hear about it from me.” Although, in John’s opinion, change like this shouldn’t be kept a secret. In all honesty, secrets shouldn’t never really be kept a secret.

 

But he wasn’t the boss. And, so, he didn’t make the call on this.

 

“You know something, this office of yours is bigger than the whole Research department.”

 

“Well, it’s supposed to be. If the Office of the President isn’t big enough to impress the sponsors, then there’s nothing for those down in Research to research.” He turned, examining his own office for a change. “I have another office just like it on the 31st floor. You want it?”

 

“No. No, thanks.” Nathan fixed him with an inquisitive stare, slightly curious.

 

“You really don’t care whether you impress people or not, do you?” John could only shrug at this.

 

“I think my bill will be impressive enough.”

 

They laughed at this, but John couldn’t shake the feeling that keeping this whole project a secret wasn’t the best way to go about it.

 

After all, he’d seen the flash of a certain look in Mr. Finch’s eyes.

 

Honestly, the man really didn’t seem like someone who would just accept these changes without a fight. And, moreover, he also seemed like a man who didn’t deserve to be kept in the shadows.

 

In fact, throughout the brief moment that Reese got to meet Finch, he felt something unusual but not... bad.

 

What exactly that feeling was, John had no idea.

 

But... he kind of liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let you all know, I've been trying to get as much writing for this done this weekend. Nevertheless, there will be a slight delay in updates now that Monday's right around the corner again.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you've been enjoying the ride so far! It's been quite fun -- and rather entertaining -- blending the two worlds into one.


	4. Of Lunches and Spare Tires

“So, what’s in the package?” Joss was never one to beat around the bush or pretend to go through small talk when she could simply just ask. Harold chuckled at this, enjoying the refreshing bluntness of his friend as he handed her the wrapped package from Bonwit’s.

 

“It’s potentially for that social event that Monica my or may not agree to accompany me to.”

 

“You mean the dance on the 12th?” At his nod Joss sighed, hoping to have heard that Harold was finally going to let that one go. He glanced up at this, clearly noting the lack of decorum in her tone. But, she saw an opening in the conversation and went for it.

 

“Look, Harold,” They were alone, which meant he would allow her to address him like this. “When and if Monica ever seems inclined to genuinely accompany you to this, do yourself a favor and be busy.”

 

Harold looked up at this, confused and sensing that Joss wasn’t done speaking.

 

“That’s why she always waits until the last minute -- she knows you’re always there.”

 

“You mean I’m too available?”

 

It was strange that they had ever managed to start talking about this sort of thing. But, Harold liked Joss -- as a friend, mind you -- and Joss liked helping others. So, one day, he finally managed to let himself get helped and more than seven years later they were still in the same boat.

 

Was it socially acceptable? Probably not.

 

Did that really bother either of them? Not in the slightest.

 

“Available? You’re like an old coat that’s hanging in her closet. Every time she reaches in, there you are. Don’t be there for once.”

 

“She’d just go out and buy herself a new coat.” Because, let’s face, someone else usually stole her away at all the various forms of social events. And, even though Monica has never officially cheated on Harold… has she ever really been his?

 

“Well, she’s been wearing this one for seven years. And what makes you think she wouldn’t anyway?”

 

“Well, if she did--” At first, it had seemed like a lighthearted thought, almost a joke even. And then it became a touch too close to reality. “Well, if she did that would be awful, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, it would be, wouldn’t it?” And though Joss wasn’t really all that fond of Monica,  she could definitely relate to her friend. “You go along thinking that maybe something _wonderful_ will happen tomorrow, you’re not gonna be alone anymore. And then one day it starts to click that it’s all over. You’re out of circulation. It all happened and you didn’t even know _when_ it happened.”

 

“Well, when that day comes, we’ll figure something out. Maybe move into the same building and get cats.”

 

“I don’t like cats. I like men!” _And so do you,_ She thought to herself, though she certainly wouldn’t say that particular thought aloud.

 

Oh, yes, Harold was smitten with Monica. And, yes, this has been going on for seven years. But, Harold was a kind soul and one who didn’t judge by the sex.

 

Joss snorted at a dirtier thought that followed similar lines and Harold laughed alongside her, all the while being completely oblivious to the real reason why she was laughing.

 

And, right on time, their laughter was interrupted: another request for attention was being put through to Harold via his telephone. And, soon Harold was making excuses that she swiped aside because this is their job, after all.

 

“Reference, Mr. Finch speaking.”

 

_“Mr. Finch? Alice. Monica’s coming down to see you.”_

 

“She is?” Joss cringed at the happiness radiating through Harold’s voice. “Thanks, Alice. Thanks a lot.” Harold looked up, unable to keep from smiling again. “She’s on her way down.”

 

“So, I figured.” Joss said dryly, heading towards the door. “Did you hear anything I said?”

 

“Of course, I did. Nevertheless, I’m the faithful-as-a-bird-dog type. Can’t descend into deviant behavior for the life of me.”

 

“Alright, Lassie. But when she disappears, remember, you heard it on this channel first.”

 

As the door closed, Harold hurriedly began to reorganize the space into some semblance of order and method. So focused was he that he almost missed the latest visitor arriving.

 

“Hello, Harold.” Monica leaned against the doorway, sleek black hair pulled into a chic bun. She smiled at her office lover, eyes subtly glowing at the sight of that package.

 

“Hello, Monica.” He held out the package, softly smiling in delight as she crossed the room. “Just a little something I took out on approval.”

 

“I approve heartily.” Harold’s smile grew as he held his arms for a soothing hug.

 

Monica instead took the package and merely smiled as she stepped out of his reach.

 

“Now, darling, you know what it’d look like if we were seen hugging behind your glass walls.” His smile thinned out a little -- after seven years, you’d think that hugging would be socially acceptable.

 

But, he knew that it would eventually be socially acceptable in Monica’s eyes, and so it was just a matter of waiting.

 

“Besides, if I’m found being kissed by you, everyone will know that you really haven’t got a brain in your head for all of your supposed intelligence.” She giggled. “After all, the only way you keep your job is by being nice to me.” Jokingly said, it still stung a little.

 

Or, rather, it still stung a lot.

 

But, Harold knew that this was Monica’s way of being playfully affectionate. And, so, he merely smiled in response.

 

“Well, I do try to work.”

 

“Work? Oh, yes, work.” Monica paused, as though considering something. “Harold, take a look at this financial report I drew up, will you? I didn’t want to turn it in until you had a look at it.”

 

“Sure, I’d be glad to.”

 

“Take a look at the projected expenditures, do they look all right?”

 

“Yes, I will.” Monica allowed a hand to coyly sit on Harold’s shoulder at this, leaning over ever so slightly to take a look at the reports again.

 

“I really don’t know how I’d manage without you, Harold.” She whispered into his ear. “I’ve missed you. Feels like I haven’t seen you in years.” But, he was far too immersed in the job and so didn’t notice the change in her demeanor.

 

“It was a week ago Monday.”  She tilted her head at this, seeming to resist the urge to roll her eyes at his obliviousness. But, there were more pressing topics than her unfocused lover.

 

“Well, the, uh, annual board meeting is coming up, and the boys upstairs want to pressure me -- they hope I’m finally going to crack although they all know I won’t give in.”

 

“There’s no need for concern, it’s just their annual war dance.”

 

“I don’t know why I get so nervous. I’ve been here long enough you’d think I wouldn’t let it get to me.”

 

“Mmm, well, they do that to you.” Monica walked around and settled into the chair, not really paying an ounce of attention. “It really is what I said before.”

 

“Hmm?”

“It’s their annual war dance.” And that’s when an idea struck Harold, a way of finally asking Monica that one question.

 

“Every year, it’s the same dance. In fact,” He paused for dramatic effect, “It’s like that dance in the country club -- when was it again?”

 

“That dance? Oh, I think it was the 9th?”

 

_Try the 12th, Monica._

 

“Hmmm, I think it was the 12th, my dear.” She frowned at this.

 

“Well, if you’re so sure, then why’d you ask?” _Abort attempt at this form of human interaction. I repeat, abort attempt at this form of human interaction._

 

See, it was always a struggle to get Monica onto the same topic. But, that was, of course, because she was always so busy she just couldn’t always be in the same mindset.

 

“Well, uh, anyway,” _Why did I think I could just ask this?_ “Well, I think it’s on a Saturday.”

 

She looked up at him, arching an eyebrow.

 

“And?”

 

“And, well, I was wondering if you were available to potentially accompany me?” She giggled once more at this.

 

“Oh, Harold, you’re far too stuffy. But that’s how I like my men, I supposed: overly stuffy.” He frowned at this, once again not really caring for her tone.

 

But that gorgeously bright smile put all of his frustration out like a light.

 

“I think I’d like to go with you to that dance.” His happiness soared at that casual remark. She turned. “Oh, is that a dress you bought for me at Bonwit’s?” He started to nod at this, ready to elaborate, but she interrupted him. “That’s just so sweet of you, Harold!”

 

He could only stand and smile at this, a little overwhelmed at how easy it was to just ask and for her to say yes.

 

“I’d love to wear that. And any jewelry you think might complement the piece, of course.” She sighed happily, having fixated on the package but now looking directly at him. Or, rather, his pockets. “Oh, Harold, darling, would you be a dear and let me borrow a hairpin you always keep around for your girls?”

 

He nodded, fishing around his pocket for the container of hairpins. As Monica said, he always kept at least a few on his person in case one of the girls needed to borrow one -- whether for their hair, to bookmark something, or something else altogether.

 

As she pinned her hair up, she sent another coquettish look his way.

 

And, this time, he couldn’t miss it.

 

“Now, even though we can’t have fun inside these glass walls, maybe you could personally deliver those financial reports to me later?”

 

He merely looked at her in astonishment, once again not really caring for the implications. Especially, considering how opposed she was to their relationship being a public display only a few moments ago.

 

_And a hug is far more chaste than what_ she _has in mind, of that I’m sure._

 

“I think I’ll just send it up.” She held his gaze, flirtatious tendencies falling into a form of bemusement.

 

“Alright.” She started heading out. “Oh, and do remember the dance on the 12th!”

 

“The 12th, of course.”

 

And, then, she left the office. Harold merely sat at his desk, reflecting on the last five minutes as Monica greeted the girls.

 

“Coffee break!” He saw rather than heard Miss Shaw call out to the others.

 

“Miss Carter,” He intoned calmly from his office, feeling far more energy than it seemed. Joss looked up, eyes scanning the scene coolly and recognizing the fact that he had news to share.

  
“Be a minute, girls.” She told Grace and Sameen as they left the room.

 

Once it was only Harold and Joss, he eagerly stepped forth and hugged his dear friend.

 

“Oh, Joss! I asked her! I finally asked her!” They uncharacteristically twirled about the room, grinning like fools.

 

“Oh, Harold, I’m so glad! Did you set the date?”

 

 “Well, it was always the 12th of--” He paused, believing he understood the real question but not wanting to admit it. “Date for what?”

 

“The wedding!”

 

“What wedding? I invited her to the dance.” Immediately, the spinning stopped and Joss actually groaned in frustration at this.

 

“For Pete’s sake, Finch, what’d you expect me to think?” And in an audacious fashion, she immediately started to emulate her boss and friend. “‘Oh, Joss, I asked her! I finally asked her!”

 

“Well, let’s try not to do too much in one go, Joss!” But, she was having none of his attempts to curb her behavior.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve just listened to another episode in the life of Harold Finch, spare tire.” And then his friend waltz out of the room right as a familiar, shrilly chord sounded.

 

He glanced at the machine, refraining from rolling his eyes because of its not-so-impeccable timing.

 

“Reference, Mr. Finch. Let me jot that down, one moment. Yes, I am positive that we have that. Just another moment, please.” He delicately set the phone down, immediately marching off into the shelves.

 

Unfortunately, that’s when Miss Hendrick’s phone joined the call for attention.

 

“Hold please!” Harold snapped from the shelves, knowing that his frustration wouldn’t be heard.

 

“I’ll take the call.” A man’s voice sounded from the desk area and Harold froze, not knowing exactly who was now in the room.

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Reese.”

 

“Oh, thank you.” Harold found the section he was looking for. “Seems like you have rather impeccable timing, Mr. Reese.”

 

But, Mr. Reese was already focused on picking up the call and Harold had purposefully muttered the remark so that it wouldn’t be overheard.

 

As he started to make his way back, he caught one of the odder conversations of the day involving the methods engineer.

 

“Black velvet, strapless.” The engineer paused.  “With what kind of scarf? … _Puce?_ Well, yeah, I know how to spell it: P-U-C-E. Right, I’ll tell her as soon as she comes in.

 

Harold paused a moment, hearing other footsteps in the room. But the job was calling and so was his curiosity.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” He said, heading straight back to the person waiting on the line.

 

“Mr. Finch,” It seemed Mr. Reese had a question that was truly bothering him. “Who is this?”

 

Harold looked down and smiled, instantly recognizing the name.

 

“She’s our trademark. She’s been with the company since it first started, thirty-six years ago.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize her: she’s changed her hair.” But, he was already back to business. “Yes, I do have that information. I’ll send it down by messenger. You’re quite welcome.”

 

“Uh, Mr. Finch, are you free for lunch?” At this, Harold immediately whirled his attention back to Mr. Reese.

 

“Lunch? Me and you?”

 

“Yes. Why? Is there some sort of company policy that prohibits two people--”

 

“No! No, no.” He walked back to his office. “I’ll check my appointment book.”

 

“Good.”

 

Almost instantly, Harold turned around . “I just remembered: I’m free.”

 

“Excellent. I’ve got a lot questions I’d like to ask. Quarter to one work, Mr. Finch?”

 

“Works for me.”

 

“I’ll pick you up here, then.”

 

“Good.” But, Mr. Reese was already heading back out the door, leaving Harold to his muddled thoughts. He didn’t really know why the idea of lunch with Mr. Reese made him nervous, but it wasn’t a bad sort of nerves. Just those nerves that come with a new, exciting idea.

 

Which made all of this even more strange.

 

But, when Harold became stressed or confused, there was always one thing he could turn to: research.

 

And, this time, instead of a topic or subject to investigate… he had a person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to admit, it's so weird not updating on a daily basis -- but this is, of course, a different kind of 'fic.
> 
> Hope you all have enjoyed this and have a nice night!


	5. A Rare Tropical Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who may or may not have gotten a notification about a new chapter a few days ago, that was a mistake on my part -- I had totally meant to publish a chapter called “And They All Lived (Sorta) Happily Ever After” for another story called “Relevance”. Sorry about that! 
> 
> Also, for readers of “Relevance” and the oneshot “Never Assume”, pay close attention to one of these scenes: it's a part of the set that inspired me to write this story :)

It had felt as though he had been waiting five days for this next moment, but it’d only been a little while since Reese asked Harold to lunch.

 

Nevertheless, it indeed a little  _ past  _ a quarter to 1pm.

 

But, just to be on the safe side, he picked up the phone. 

 

“Say, Sadie, what time is it?  Oh. Thank you.”

 

Well, he’d fixed the time later -- he was sure if he set about the task now, that’s when Mr. Reese would be making his appearance. 

 

With a coat already shrugged onto his shoulders, he began fidgeting and pacing the room. Normally, Harold wasn’t one for nervous tendencies. 

 

But, he’d had this odd feeling upon meeting Mr. Reese, one that had refused to abate with time.  And, the strangest part was that he  _ liked  _ this feeling.

 

The entrance finally opened, but only to a cheerful Joss.

 

“Hi!”

 

“Hi.” 

 

“Being stood up?” Harold stiffened at the implications, even though Joss didn’t know who was asking him to lunch.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t put it in those terms,” He started, but gave up on trying to sway her opinion on the matter. “But, I suppose your guess is as good as mine, Joss. All I know is I’ve managed to obtain an appetite.”

 

“Well, if Monica wants to go the  _ Pavilion _ , try the chicken with the truffles. I hear it’s marvelous.”

 

“Poulard truffee. I may in fact eat myself into next week.” There really was no need to correct his friend just yet.

 

“Well, take your time, Harold. I’ll mind the store.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Pacing nervously turned into glaring holes into the floor. He had been curious about the whole matter, but now his hunger was warping curiosity into vexation.

 

“Hello, Mr. Finch. Am I late?” Harold merely looked at him, fixing him with a stare. “Sorry.”

 

But, now that Harold had more knowledge on the situation, he couldn’t allow his frustration to take over. 

 

“I was beginning to think I misunderstood you.” After all, a businessman doesn’t keep someone they just met waiting _that_ long.

 

“Oh, no, not at all. C’mon.”

 

And, so they left the department and headed for the elevators.

 

“So, tell me, Mr. Finch. What training have you had for your job?”

 

“Well, a college education and after that a library course at Columbia. I was going to take a PhD, but I ran out of money.” He paused, quirking an eyebrow. “Is this an interview, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Just getting the vital statistics.” The elevator had arrived by this point.

 

“Down?” Fusco asked inside as Harold went to step forward.

 

“No, thank you.” Reese stopped him in his tracks, causing Harold to sharply turn around in confusion.

 

“Continue, Mr. Finch.”

 

_ Why would we have any to go  _ up _? _

 

“Well, we came out here from the Midwest. My parents were both school teachers in the public school system, so we didn’t have much money.” Reese nodded at this. “I’ve read every New York newspaper backward and forward for the past fifteen years.”

 

“Mmhmm.”  _ Well, what else would you like to know? My Social Security Number? _

 

“I don’t smoke. I only drink champagne when I’m lucky enough to get it. I live alone and so do you.” Reese could only tilt his head at this last remark, so certainly was it stated.

 

“How’d you know that?”   


 

“Because, Mr. Reese, you’re wearing one brown sock and one black one.” The engineer lifted his trousers only to discover that Harold was right. He let out a chuckle at this.

 

“If you lived with anybody, they probably would’ve told you.”

 

“That’s one of the advantages of living alone-- nobody tells you anything.”

 

_ “Up?” _

 

“Yes, yes. Thank you.” He ushered a puzzled Harold into the elevator and they continued on up...

 

…

  
  


“Hello, Sam. Joss here.”

 

_ “What’s up, Joss?” _

 

“Have you at all figured out anything else about that Reese character?”

 

_ 'Well, now that you mention it..." _

 

…

 

_ This  _ is where they were going for lunch?

 

“Nice place.” 

 

Apparently, Mr. Reese was oblivious to the definition of a nice place. Especially if he considered being outside on the roof in  _ November  _ to be nice.

 

“I found it the other day when I was in the building. Have you been up here before?”

 

“Yes, I have. Many times, in fact… in July.”

 

But Mr. Reese was already setting up their lunch on a frigid table, clearly quite ecstatic to be outside in such weather. 

 

“Now, we have roast beef, ham, and cheese. You can have your choice.” 

 

Harold sarcastically chuckled, his stomach protesting this lack of a meal in the form of a growl. Reese paused for a moment.

 

“Well, you could probably have two of the three, but try to leave something for me.” He spoke wryly, already preparing to sit down.

 

"Sure." Harold muttered, only able to focus on two things: the temperature and the waiting food.

 

“This is the ideal place for concentration, isn’t it? No waiters, no people, no telephones.”

 

“No central heating for that matter.”

 

“But, plenty of hot coffee.” He gestured to the table. “Please, have a seat.”

 

“Thank you.” But, in all honesty, gratitude was one of the last emotions Harold was currently experiencing.

 

“Now, I have a personality questionnaire here. Some of these questions may seem a little silly to you, but you’d be surprised what they indicate about general intelligence, adaptability, and so forth. And they may also be a bit of a tease for your memory.”

 

“A tease?”

 

“All you have to do is answer the question without, you know, dwelling on it.”

 

“Mmm, I won’t.” He nodded at this, getting the questions out.

 

“‘Often when we meet people for the first time, some physical characteristic strikes us. Now, what is the first thing you notice in a person?’”

 

“Whether the person is male or female.” He nodded at this, making a note.

 

“Okay. This is a little mathematical problem.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“Celery and olives?” Mr. Reese picked up the food, offering the container.

 

“Four olives, three pieces of celery.” 

 

He set the container back down. “That doesn’t happen to be the question.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“It’s okay. Now, ‘a train started out at Grand Central with seventeen passengers aboard and a crew of nine. At 125th Street, four got off and nine got on. At White Plains, three got off and one got on. At Chappaqua, nine got off and four got on. And at each successive stop thereafter, nobody got off and nobody got on until the train reached its next-to-last stop, where five people got off and one got on. Then it reached the terminal.” Harold nodded at this, faintly smiling at the "tease".

 

“That’s easy. Eleven passengers and a crew of nine.”

 

“Uh, that’s not the question.” 

 

“Oh, well, I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s alright. The question is, 'how many people got off at Chappaqua'?”

 

“Nine.” Reese had just about to take a bite out of his sandwich when he comically froze, mouth subtly gaping.

 

“That’s correct.”

 

“I know, Mr. Reese.” A bemused smile emerged at this.

 

“Would you mind telling me how you arrived at that conclusion?”

 

“Spooky, isn’t it?” Did you notice that there are also nine letters in ‘Chappaqua’?”

 

“Are you in the habit of associating words with the numbers of letters in them?”

 

“I associate many things with many things.” Harold finally went for the roast beef, letting his desire to just eat take over. 

 

“Aren’t you going to ask me how many people got off at White Plains, Mr. Reese?” He eventually asked, before swallowing some of the sandwich. “It’s three, before you ask.”

 

“But there are ten letters in White Plains.”   


 

“Not quite. Eleven." And now he was clearly frustrating the man.

 

“But only three got off.”

 

“Well, you see, Mr. Reese, I’ve only ever been to White Plains three times in my whole life.” And, as fun as it was to recollect on such matters and prove his intellect, he was more focused on not trying to shiver from the cold.

 

“Well, what would you’ve said if you had only been there twice?”

 

“Speculation wouldn’t be necessary in this case, seeing as how I was there three times.” Fortunately, the food was helping with the frostbite, if only a little. “Aren’t you going to ask me how many people got on at Croton Falls?”

 

The engineer consulted his paper at this.

 

“There is no Croton Falls mentioned in the question.”

 

“No, but it is the next-to-last stop on that line. Anyway, only one passenger got off.” Another shiver. “Aren’t you cold?”

 

“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Finch. I never get cold.”  _ Well, aren’t you lucky. _

 

“Now, do you notice anything unusual about the following sentence? ‘Able was I, ere I saw Elba'.”

 

“Well, not really, no. But, I doubt that Napoleon ever said anything like that.” John began to let a smirk slide onto his at this, but it was a premature victory. “Unless you mean because it’s spelled the same way backward and forward. Is that what you mean? What do they call that? A --”

 

“A palindrome.” He muttered through his sandwich, not only impressed but back to looking unamused.

 

“Mmm, I know another: ‘Madam, I’m Adam.” 

 

“Well, I doubt if he ever said that.” Harold let out a little chuckle, still not fully concentrating on anything except for how cold it was.   
  


“Now, I have three telephone numbers. I’m going to repeat them just once. See if you can repeat them after me.” Harold hummed his consent to this little test, curious.

 

“Are you ready?”   


 

“Yes.”

 

“Plaza 2-3391. Murray Hill 3-1099. Plaza 2-3931.” He looked up, studying his interviewee closely. “Tough question?” Harold shook his head, trying to maintain some semblance of decorum as he spoke. 

 

“Tough roast beef.” Having managed to say that, he began to recite. “Plaza, 2-3391. Murray Hill, 3-1099, and Plaza, 2-3913.”

 

_ Now how on Earth did you do that? _

 

“Would you mind telling me how you arrived at that?”

 

“Gladly. First is Plaza 2 with the year of the Bank Panic reversed. The second one is Murray Hill 3 with thirty-three years  _ after  _ the date of the Norman Conquest. And the last one is Plaza 2 with the number the same as the first and the second and third digits transposed.”  John was beyond stupefied by this level of thinking, but Harold wasn’t done. “Except, that there’s something terribly wrong with that question.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I don’t think there  _ is  _ any Plaza 2 Exchange.” The engineer blankly nodded at this, still trying to figure out what had happened in the last two minutes.

 

“Uh, 'what if anything, is-- actually, let’s just skip that one.”

 

“Whew.” The comment was lightly sprinkled in sarcasm. But it was cold, and Reese didn’t really seem to notice it let alone mind.

 

“Now, before asking you the next question, I must inform you that it contains a trick. In order to see into the trick, I give you two words of advice: ‘Never assume’.” For that is what everyone did with this one. And, furthermore, this was the first time in a very long time that John was looking forward to that mistake.

 

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

 

“Are you ready?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“‘A detective broke into an apartment, found Harry and Grace lying on the floor, dead. Beside them was a small pool of water and some fragments of broken glass. Above them on a sofa looking down at them was a pet cat, his back arched. The detective concluded, without further investigation, that the victims had died of strangulation.” He looked up, content unabashedly twinkling in his eyes. “How was this conclusion possible?”

 

“‘Never assume’, hmm?”

 

“Never assume.”

 

“Yes, well,” Harold paused, fidgeting with his gloves. “The only thing I’m assuming is that Harry and Grace were--” He looked back at the table, thinking once again. “Were Harry and Grace-- oh, no, it’s just too silly, but you did say.... Well, were Harry and Grace goldfish?”

 

This time, his jaw dropped. And his eyes widened in astonishment.

 

And that's when he realized that Mr. Finch had a lot more to him than met the eye.

 

“No, they weren’t goldfish.” But he continued before Harold could start berating himself. “They were rare tropical fish. Like you.” 

 

Harold nodded at this compliment, before deciding to turn the tables.

 

“How did your machine do on this test?”

 

“No machine can evaluate-- how’d you think to ask that question?” 

 

“Oh, I did a little research on you.”

 

“Oh.”  _ Oh dear is more like it. _

 

“You were born in Columbus, Ohio on May 22nd. That makes you a Gemini. You’re a graduate of MIT with a PhD in Science. You’re a Phi Beta Kappa although you don’t wear your key, which implies that you’re either modest or that you’ve lost it. You spent World War II in Greenland, working on something so top secret that even I couldn’t find out about it. 

 

“You’re one of the leading exponents of the electronic brain in this country, and the inventor of an electronic brain machine called  _ EMMARAC _ , the electromagnetic memory and research arithmetical calculator.” In this entire moment, Harold had gotten up to increase his body heat. But now he had to capitulate to the cold and sit back down again. “That’s all I found so far, but I only had half an hour.”

 

“A  _ very  _ rare tropical fish.” 

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Have you ever seen one of these electronic brains in action, EMMARAC for example?”   


 

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I saw a demonstration at IBM just this morning.”

 

“Oh? Did you see it translate Russian into Chinese?”

 

“Yeah, I saw it do everything. Frightening, what a machine is capable of. Gave me the feeling that maybe, just maybe, people were a little bit outmoded.”

 

“Mmm, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if they stopped making them.” Harold laughed at this, not even realizing that it was surprisingly easy to forget about the cold when Mr. Reese gave him that particular smile.

 

…

 

He had just going for some water when Mr. Finch stepped out of the elevator.

 

“Hello, Finch.”

 

“Hello, Mr. Tao. How’s everything in the financial department?”

 

“It's been good. But--”

 

“You haven’t been over to see me for a long time, Mr. Tao.” Which was something that Harold didn’t really mind, but still. “Any news from the grapevine?”

 

“Well, no. But I heard--” He paused, dramatically looking back and forth into the hallway. “I heard something that concerns you, personally.”

 

“You did?” With Leon, that could mean anything. Why only yesterday he'd been spreading some sort of tall tale about an elderly gentleman scamming a casino. 

 

But that story was neither here nor there.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You haven’t heard I’m engaged to be married, have you?”

 

“No!” He paused. “Are you?”

 

“No. But, if you ever hear anything like that, you come and tell me right away.” Okay, now, Harold was just having a bit of facetious fun.

 

But Leon was having none of that.

 

“I, uh-- I was down in Personnel this morning.”

 

“You were where?”

 

“Personnel, on the ninth floor.”

 

“Oh--”

 

“And while I was in there, they down a request from Mr. Ingram’s office for your personnel file.” Harold froze, facetious attitude draining faster than seemed possible.

 

“They did?”

 

“Yeah. And you know, Mr. Finch, that when they send for those folders it generally means they’re adding up the severance pay.” Harold nodded, knowing all too well what _those_ requests usually entailed. “Of course, I didn’t want to worry you or anything, Mr. Finch.”

 

_ Of course.  _

 

“Oh, I know you didn’t.”

 

“Just thought I ought to tell you.”  _ I’m sure you did. _

 

“Yes, well, thank you for your consideration, Mr. Tao.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

…

 

“Harold, I thought you’d never get back. Do you know what that John Reese is doing?”

 

And the melodrama refused to come to an end, seeing as Joss was riled up.

 

And Joss _never_ gets riled up. 

 

“Yes, he’s up on the roof feeding the pigeons.”

 

“Not that. Do you know what he’s doing here?” Well, Harold already had an idea. But this wasn’t the time nor the place to worry Joss.

 

“What is he doing here?”

 

“He’s trying to replace us all with a mechanical brain! He’s under special assignment to Ingram to see if EMMARAC can be adapted to this department. That means the end of us all!” It was during that final moment of melodrama that Harold knew he had to step in -- regardless of what may or may not be true.

 

“Joss, Joss, calm down. No machine can do our job.”

 

“That’s what they said in payroll.” Now, _this_ was a new piece of information to jump at.

 

“Did he design the machine in payroll?”

 

“Yes! And, as soon as it was installed, half the department disappeared!”

 

“Well, the machine in payroll is just a calculator. They can’t build a machine to do our job. There are just too many cross-references in this place.”   _ Well, they can’t build a machine to do our jobs anytime  _ soon _ , at least.  _ “I’d match my memory against  _ any  _ machine’s any day, and yours.”

 

He paused, hoping his words got through.

 

“Now, Joss, the worst thing that can happen is for us to panick. So, let’s keep this between you and me, and not tell Miss Hendricks or Miss Shaw.”

 

“Not tell them? They’re at union headquarters right now to see if there’s a law against this!”

 

“Well, there is a law against this. And there’s my phone.”

 

Because even when it seemed the conclusion was just waiting to be jumped to, his job still managed to take away his attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't it just ironic how John is the one who has built a machine in this world? It tickles me every time I think about it xD


	6. Going Away for the Weekend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: this is the 2nd update of today! So, if you feel like we're in completely new territory, you might want to go back and look through the previous chapter.
> 
> Now, there’s a little hint of Shoot as well as some Rinch in this chapter, another one of the reasons why this isn’t purely a remake of the movies.
> 
> Also, elbowsinsidethedoor, I decided to get a little creative with a few scenes to incorporate a few more characters. Just thought I’d give you a heads up in case the changes are surprising!
> 
> Now, are you ready to have some fun? :3

 

The sun was shining more so than normal, traffic seemed to be in his favor, it was the day of the dance, and Harold was looking forward to Monica’s face when he presented her with the stunning flowers he impulsively purchased just a few minutes ago.

 

And, no, contrary to the little voice shouting in the back of his mind, he didn’t feel  _ obligated  _ to show her affection in such a fashion. He merely wanted to.

 

And he definitely was excited to put them on display once he got back to the office. After all, why shouldn’t he be excited to be spending quality time with the woman who stole his heart for the last seven years? 

 

__.__

 

“Good morning, Mr. Finch, Mr. Reese!”

 

“Good morning, Lionel.” Harold responded with Reese nodded in a form of a greeting. But he was distracted, clearly engaged in some sort of a debate with Reese.

 

It was of no matter to Fusco, he found their interactions to be some of the more entertaining ones of the day.

 

Mr. Finch would politely pester Mr. Reese with question after question and usually Reese would handle it pretty well. After a while, Mr. Finch would just huff to himself before they both exited for the appropriate floor.

 

Sometimes it was almost… endearing, how they interacted. Lord only knows that they seemed to have more far more of an interaction -- and far more of a kinder interaction, too -- together than Lionel ever witnessed with Mr. Finch and Ms. Cutler. 

 

Which wasn’t really saying much.

 

But, that was neither here nor there.

 

…

 

“Please, don’t lose that, Miss Hendricks. It’s my only copy.” 

 

“Yes, Mr. Finch.” They both glanced over at Mr. Reese for a brief moment, taking in the fact that he still seemed to be cataloging everything they did. He really had been becoming a part of their environment for a few days now, but Harold was still determined to mostly ignore the engineer.

 

That is, unless he was providing answers on his real purpose.

 

“Hi, Mike,” Grace cordially greeted as the Mike Laskey, one of the current pages of the company, scurried into the room.

 

“Hi.” But Laskey wasn’t here for her. Not officially that is. “Mr. Reese, here’s that file you wanted. They asked if you’d please return it to Personnel as soon as you’re finished with it.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Laskey spared a glance at Grace, waiting for Reese to turn his back before he tossed a handwritten note onto her desk.

 

It said only one thing:  **_YOURS_ **

 

Why anyone would want her personnel file, she didn’t want to know.

 

But Grace was unfortunately sure that that wasn’t going to be the end of it.

 

...

 

Sameen Shaw did not ever care for people who essentially looked over her shoulder. She also didn't care for people who only seemed interested in busywork. So, when Reese plopped himself down next to her desk to look over some notes, she found herself wanting to throttle him.

 

Here he was, just sorting paperwork. Why exactly he couldn’t do that in another part of the office still escaped her.

 

Fortunately, her phone rang before she could snap at him.

 

“Reference Department, Miss Shaw.”

 

_ “Care for a coffee break, Sameen?”  _  Sameen stiffened, trying not to let the purposefully hushed, purposefully _sultry_ , tone of Root’s voice get to her with Reese right in front of her. 

 

Furthermore, how did Sam make the words like ‘coffee break’ sound so tantalizing and arousing?

 

Sameen shook her head, and trying to not think about the delicious coffee break they had the last time Sam had called.

 

“Not under the, uh, present sign of the Zodiac." _Am I really going with the Zodiac on this one?_  "Gemini is at-- at war with Sagittarius and, this means…” This means that this was one of the lamest ways of saying she was unavailable  _ ever _ . “Well, this means that all signs are hostile at the present and continued alertness should be the order of the day…”

 

And did her little foray into astrology even give her any slack from either of them?

 

Nope.

 

_ “Oh, I see.”  _ She could hear the silent snickers of Samantha and really wanted to just let her head collide with the desk for the sheer amount of stupidity she was bringing into this moment.  _ “Well, if you ever want to escape the Brain, just let me know.” _

 

“You’re welcome, call us anytime.”

 

…

 

_ Do not stare at him, do not stare at him. _

 

Reese was now kneeling on the floor to do some more measuring. And, unbeknownst to the man, his suit was now outlining some of the more attractive aspects of his body that the ladies and Harold had never quite noticed before.

 

Speaking of the Reference Head, Harold was trying to walk away from the current sight and into the books without blushing.

 

There really was no need to blush. He could objectively admit that Mr. Reese made for quite a handsome figure. Therefore, it made sense that most of the women in the department would be enamored with his appearance.

 

And, after all, Harold was most certainly flustered for his workers’ sake, not his own. 

 

Why anyone would even think otherwise would be a complete mystery to him.  

 

“Carter Department, Miss Reference speaking. I mean, Miss Reference Department, Carter-- Oh, you know what I mean.” It was clear as day that even Joss was struggling with this little scene. Especially seeing as Reese was crawling around right in front of her desk. 

 

“The traditional Thanksgiving song? Well, one of them is ‘Over the River and Through the Woods’.”

 

…

 

“Harold,” There was finally a lull in work. It seldom occurred, but if it were happening then this was as good a time as any to slow down for a few moments.

 

“Yes, Miss Carter?”

 

“Monica Cutler’s waiting for you in your office. And,” But Harold was already quickening his pace, nearly passing Joss in under ten seconds. “... I think she saw the flowers.”

 

“How do I look?” The shy schoolboy persona emerged for just a few moments and Joss barely stopped herself from smacking her employer for his foolish taste in women.

 

“Too good for her.” He ignored this pointed remark, turning back to everyone.

 

“Now, if any of you have questions, it would be a good idea to get them together before I leave. We’re leaving by 4pm so I can drop Monica off to get her hair done.” He hurried on into the office, already grinning like an idiot at the sight of Monica clearly admiring the flowers.

 

“Monica.” He said, walking forward with a twinkle in step.

 

“They’re lovely, Harold!” She said, fixated on the elegant and pale petals. “And you’re an angel for getting them for me.”

 

But that tone held something in it that Harold was all too used to. A tone he hadn’t really wanted to hear today.

 

“Oh.” His grin faded into something more neutral, something more controlled. “We’re not going, are we?”

 

“We're not going." She glanced up a moment. "I’m sorry. Especially because I know you’re all packed, too.”

 

_ … I think I really should’ve known better than to have expected something other than this. _

 

“Where?”

 

“Chicago.”

 

“When?”

 

“Tonight. When you work for a network, you have to expect--”

 

“This sort of thing.” They finished in unison -- her voice almost patronizing and his just worn down by the same old excuse.

 

“Can’t say I’m not used to it.”

 

“We didn’t make it last year, either?”

 

“Miami. I remember because you-- well, you had brought back a flattering bikini.” It had also been a little risqué. But maybe they needed to be risqué from time to time.

 

“I’m really sick about all of this, Harold, but I couldn’t just say no to Ingram. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t go with you because I have a date with Harold’ didn’t really seem like the best response.”

 

“You’re going with Ingram?”

 

“Yes. How about that? He could’ve asked Pendleton or North or a half a dozen other guys but he didn’t: just the one woman near the top.”

 

“I really do think you’re moving on up, Monica.” Harold said, smiling at the idea of a woman ascending that particular ladder.

 

“And it's mostly thanks to you. That financial report had a lot to do with this.” She smiled at this, snapping a flower off from its stem and presenting it to Harold. “I got quite a few compliments.”

 

“Remind me to make mistakes next year.” Harold said dryly, thinly smiling back in kind as he received her flower.

 

“A flower presented from a rising young executive. Speaking of, Harold, why don't you drive out to the airport with me?”

 

“ _ Oh _ ,” Harold stumbled in his thoughts at this, not really sure how to proceed. Because the idea of not having a reason to go to the dance and then watching Monica leave wasn't all that appealing. “No, um, I don't think so. All those people flying away, and… me just sitting there, sitting. No, I don't think so.”

 

“Well, I guess I'll --”

 

“I’ll leave a light burning in the window for you.” She frowned at this, before regaining her customary smile.

 

“It won't have to burn long. I'll be back before Christmas. And,” She caressed his cheek, not noticing that he was resisting the urge to stiffen. “Maybe, instead of a dance, we’ll go away for a  _ weekend _ . And have a different kind of fun." 

 

“Oh, um,”

 

“Either way, look for me in your stocking.” She said with a flirtatious air before heading out the door into the floor of the department.

 

“Goodbye, Monica.”

 

“Bye, Harold. Ta-ta for now!”

 

The door firmly shut and Harold turned back around to recollect himself. He stiffened as he suddenly realized one thing:

 

She had taken the flowers.

 

She had rejected him, had coyly said goodbye, andhad proceeded to take the flowers.

 

…

 

He had stopped working around 5pm, attempted to write out more of pi thirty minutes later and gave up on the whole thing around 6 something. 

 

Now, it wasn’t that late, but there was little point in moping hopelessly about the office.

 

So, he got up and went to turn off the lights before he gave himself a minute to look around in bemusement and lock up the office.

 

“Hold the door please?” A charmingly familiar voice sounded only seconds after Harold had turned off the lights. 

 

“Mr. Reese, I didn’t realize you were still here. I had assumed you had gone home hours ago. Sorry about that.”

  
“No worries, Mr. Finch. I was distracted by some readings and didn’t realize how much time had passed.” They left together, heading to the elevator before they realized they weren’t alone.

 

“Good evening, Harold, Mr. Reese.” Zoe Morgan, one of the few women in legal, had apparently just been heading out of the office herself. She and Logan Pierce, one of the slicker characters in the law office, seemed to have been chatting about something.

 

“Good evening, Miss Morgan, Mr. Pierce.” Zoe looked at Reese appraisingly, having never met the man before, and Logan merely smirked knowingly at this.   
  


“Hi.”

 

“You going away for the weekend, Harold?” Pierce was almost always irritating to interact with and this moment was no exception.

 

“No, just home.” 

 

“Ah. Well, I was going to wish you better weather, but if you’re just going home there’s really no reason to do so, is there?”

 

“No, not really.”

 

“Personally,” Zoe smoothly interrupted this little moment. “I find it’s nice to have the occasional weekend to myself. Going down, I presume?” 

 

Harold nodded at this and they waited. Fortunately, it only took a few seconds for the the elevator to arrive, giving them another escape from this awkward little moment.

 

…

 

As the quartet stepped into the gloomy weather, they began to part their separate ways.

 

“So sorry that we couldn’t spend more time just chatting,” Logan said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “But I’ve a previous engagement I simply must attend to.”

 

“Unfortunately, I think my car is probably city blocks in the wrong direction.” Zoe admitted to Harold and Reese as they both started to turn the other way.

 

“That’s quite alright. Take care!” Harold answered for John, and the two legal employees strutted off to their respective destinations. 

 

“Shall I call us a taxi, Mr. Finch?” But Harold’s attention was elsewhere.

 

“Mr. Finch?”

 

“Wait a moment, John.” The man said, not really paying attention to the fact that he actually called the engineer by his first name.

 

But John noticed.

 

“Excuse me,” Harold said, stepping forward. “But, is everything alright?”

 

A little girl was crying next to their place of employment, clearly not in the best of spirits.

 

“I- I'm so sorry, sir. But," She began to speak through a muddled frown and tired tears. "Can you help me find my family?”

 

“Of course, we can!” Harold said without a moment’s hesitation. “Would you be so kind as to tell us your name?”

 

“Leila,” She said as the sniffles and the sobs began to die down. “Leila Cruz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to get as many characters into this story as I can. Also, I’m giving Leila the last name Cruz -- instead of Smith -- because that’s the last name of her grandparents :)
> 
> Hope you’ve enjoyed!


	7. I Definitely Like That Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the scenes in this chapter is another favorite :D Hope you enjoy!

Harold would always be reminded of what astonishing timing that little girl had. As soon as she told them her name, a shocking crackle of thunder sounded in the air and lightning lazily stretched itself across the sky.

 

This was a sign that it would only drizzle for a few minutes. Then it’d be best to have the little girl safely tucked away.

 

“I suppose we’re going to help her then?” Reese asked, though both men knew it to be a rhetorical question.

 

Leila still answered it by hugging Harold’s leg. The Head of Reference stiffened at this, unused to such familiar contact -- especially coming from a child he hardly knew.

 

But, Leila was apparently a trusting girl. That or, as John would later coyly suggest, she had impeccable taste when it came to trusting others.

 

“It’s going to be okay.” John knelt to the girl, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder as some sort of effort to comfort her.

 

"Mr. Reese, perhaps _I_ should be the one to handle comforting her while you keep your eyes peeled for her guardians?"

 

But, either way, both men were not accustomed to having children around. Let alone a scared child who couldn’t be more than six years old.

 

Fortunately, she accepted them for what they were: awkwardly overprotective guardian strangers.

 

...

 

“If only your machine was good at finding people.” Harold quietly murmured to his companion.  _ Instead of taking away our jobs.  _

 

“Very funny, Harold.” 

 

The rain had definitely ceased to be just a drizzle by this point. Furthermore, Leila was still insistent on clutching Harold’s pant leg as they surveyed the surrounding city blocks.

 

But, it was to no avail: she didn’t recognize any of the strangers they passed and they were all beginning to obtain a more miserable opinion of the situation.

 

Of course, because they were determined to accept this fate and yet still keep looking, the two men and the child finally found who they were looking for.

 

“Leila?” A relieved voice called out over the showers. The men immediately whipped around just as the little girl started squealing in delight.

 

“Grandma! Grandpa!” Harold was horrified at the utter carefree nature she had as she ran through the murky puddles of the city. But, John could only smile as the small family was finally reunited.

 

“Leila’s guardians, I presume?” Harold asked with his own small smile once they eventually caught up to the trio. But, Mrs. Cruz was in no mood for subtleties.

 

“Thank you so very, very much!” She enthusiastically hugged both men, absolutely beaming with joy. 

 

“Thank you,” Mr. Cruz was a lot more taciturn. But the relief was evident even for him.

 

“We’re just glad we were able to help.” John said, also pleased that this resulted in a pleasant outcome. He then nodded as a farewell to the couple and turned to walk Harold back to the man’s car.

 

“But you can’t just leave me!” A wail released itself into the sky. And this time, Leila had somehow managed to wrap her hands around Harold _and_ John’s pant legs.

 

This only caused the Cruz guardians to laugh, knowing that their daughter was not only quite adorable but also quite a force to be reckoned with.

 

Fortunately, these were intelligent men. 

 

Which meant they were ones who understood the consequences of saying no to someone like Leila.

 

…

 

The fact that the girl had refused to relinquish her grip-- to let of either of the two men, meant that they were all now firmly squished in the back

 

And, that wouldn’t have been a problem except for Harold blushing, John frequently clearing his throat, Leila squealing and forcing the two men closer every time they went over puddles...  and Vera Cruz’s knowing smirk from the shotgun seat.

 

…

 

It only figures that the rain wouldn’t let up even as the two drenched men exited the car.

 

“Thank you so very much, Mr. and Mrs. Cruz!” Harold said as he scurried out of the back seat. 

 

“Any time!” Vera shouted over the rain whilst Sammy let out a simple“You’re welcome.”

 

“And have a nice weekend!”

  
  
“Thanks, you too!” Eventually, John had been able to slip out of Leila’s hands -- but, only after promising that both he and Harold would visit her several times in the future.

 

They both managed to slip out of the rain and onto the doorstep, having the urge to not only laugh but also process the unusual events that had just transpired.

 

“Do you actually live anywhere near here, Mr. Reese?”

 

“As a matter of fact, I live a little farther up Lexington. But I didn’t mind getting out here.” They shared a chuckle, understanding the unspoken remark that they both enjoyed that girl’s company and yet had also been rather intimidated by how assertive she had been.

 

Reese whistled for a cab but failed in procuring one. Before he could attempt again, Harold put a stop to that.

 

“No, no, you’ll never get a cab in this weather.”

 

“Maybe I could get one at the corner?” As…  _ interesting _ as the idea of watching a drenched John Reese was, Harold had a much more pragmatic plan.

 

“Mr. Reese, perhaps you should simply come on up and eat with me?” Reese looked at him, a hint of bewilderment and something else that refused to identify itself.

 

“It should be infinitely preferable to battling the current storm.” The wry tone came back, replacing whatever it was that had inhabited Harold's previous question. Reese continued to look for a few more moments before something seemed to change within him.

 

“You sure?”

 

“It’s no big deal,” Harold said, sounding far calmer than he felt. “C’mon in.”

 

…

 

"It’s truly no trouble. After all, I have plenty of food in the freezer.” The lights flicked on in his humble abode. 

 

“Nice place.” Ree-- John remarked, studying the apartment. After all, it didn't make sense to not be on a first name basis since the man was invited to dinner.

 

“Yes, well, you’ll catch pneumonia if I don’t get you out of those wet things.”   


 

“What would you suggest I change to -- your pajamas?” Harold laughed at this off-hand remark, stepping into the living room.

 

“I actually have just the thing.” Harold opened the door to reveal a meticulous closet. “Yes, I think this should fit the bill.”

 

John shook his head lightheartedly as he accepted the fuzzy black robe. “Are you sure this is appropriate?”

 

“Quite sure, Mr. Reese. You can change in there.” He ushered John into the bathroom as he returned to the closet for another inspection.

 

“Well, I suppose my slippers would be a little small. What do you think about trying on my galoshes?” But, the bathroom door was closed. 

 

Which always leads to miscommunication.

 

“Goulash? Sounds delicious!” 

 

And Harold now was changing inside the closet, unable to hear a thing. 

 

“Mr. Reese!” The door opened as he found himself almost ready to come out of the closet. “Do you mind if I ask you a pertinent question?”

 

“Go ahead, Mr. Finch.”

 

“How do you like your chicken fried?”

 

“I’ve never heard of it being made with chicken.”

 

“What?”

 

“Goulash.”

 

“What about Goulash?”  _A pause._

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I said, ‘How do you like your chicken fried’?”

 

“And I said, ‘I never heard of it being made with--’ wait, are we going to have fried chicken?”

 

“Well, yes, Mr. Reese. That _was_ the reason behind my question.”

 

“Oh, I like that even better.”

 

“Better than what?”

 

“Goulash.”

 

Harold briefly frowned in bewilderment at this, not quite understanding how goulash made its way into this conversation.

 

“Yes, well, so do I.”

 

John eventually emerged out of the bathroom, the bathrobe complementing him rather nicely.

 

“This dinner is white tie isn’t it?” He asked in that wonderful tone of his.

 

“White tie and bathrobe.” Harold smartly replied, already mentally planning out dinner. “Now, how do you like your chicken fried?”

 

“Well, salt and pepper is crucial of course. Mix that into the flour, throw it into a paper bag, toss in the chicken, shake it up.” Harold looked more and more confused the further John explained. “Would you like me to show how to make it?”

  
  
“I’d like that very much” Harold said, as he started to enter the bathroom. “The kitchen is right in there, right off the living room. I’ll be right there with you.”

 

…

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you any more chicken, Mr. Reese.” For clearly the man was not satiated by the pieces he’d already consumed, judging by his continued interest. “But, I admit, this was quite delicious. What’s your secret?”

 

“Oh, a great chef never divulges. Let’s just say that I’m just good with cooking.”

 

“I suppose so.” Harold allowed the man to continue nibbling for a bit before he decided to start the interrogation he’d been planning for the last hour. “Fortunately, there’s another secret that I’m far more interested in -- your report to Mr. Ingram on my department.”

 

“I can neither confirm nor deny any details of any such report.”

 

“So, then you do admit that no machine can,”  _ Or should,  _ “do our work.”

 

“You and EMMARAC have something in common -- you’re single-minded. You go on relentlessly trying to get the answer to whatever it is you’re trying to get the answer to.”

 

“What does she do when she doesn’t get the answer?”

 

“It’s a sensitive matter. If she becomes frustrated, her whole magnetic circuit is liable to go out.”

 

“Well, something like that is happening to me.” Harold deadpanned, only slightly joking.

 

John smiled at this, content to have the man stare him down in frustration.

 

“I do have one question of my own, Mr. Finch.”

 

“Oh? And, what is that, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Will you be serving dessert tonight? And, if so, what’s on the menu?” It was Harold’s turn to shake his head in moderate disbelief even as a smile tickled his lips.

 

“I’m serving Floating Island.”

 

“Floating Island? That’s one of my favorites!”

 

“Mine, too.” Harold softly admitted, although he was rudely interrupted by the buzzer.

 

“I wonder who that could be.” He stood up, curious to see who was at the door.

 

“Uh,”  _ Well, that’s an unusually bashful tone and he hasn’t even said anything.  _ “Would you like me to go into the--”

 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! We’re a couple of adults.”

 

“You know, I think I’ll get the dessert.”

 

“Why, thank you. It’s in the icebox.” The impertinent buzzing of the doorbell continued, up until the moment that Harold finally opened the door.

 

_ “Monica!” _


	8. And Who Are You Supposed to Be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one will stay mostly true to the movie. But, I’ve been inspired to paint a little outside of the traditional lines, just a little bit ;) :)

“Harold,” Monica coquettishly spoke, knowing she had thoroughly surprised him.

 

Little did she know he was beyond surprised and was now in the “stupefied” territory.

 

“What on earth are you doing here?”

 

“Planes are all grounded,” She said, reaching up a hand to loosen his tie. “How do you like that?”

 

“Oh my,” Was all Harold could state as he leaned out of her touch to gallantly hang up her coat.

 

“Raining here and snowing in Chicago, can you believe it?”

 

“You don’t say.” Harold definitely wasn’t happy about this change in plans. He wasn't sure what he was, but it wasn't happy.

 

“I know it’s late, Harold, but aren’t you going to invite me in?”

 

“Oh, sure. Sure, go on in.” _We might as we get this over with._

 

Monica leaned in for a peck and Harold managed to turn his cheek in her direction, quite alright with avoiding lips. 

 

She proceeded to walk past him and make herself at home.

 

“Ah! Dinner and a fire going. How lucky can a girl get?”

 

That’s when John re-entered the room.

 

In Harold’s bathrobe.

 

Whilst carrying their two dessert.

 

Immediately, it was though the fire had gone out. Or, rather, it was as though the air became stifled with some sort of constricting awkwardness -- an awkwardness that could only grow in magnitude.

 

“Mr. Reese, Monica. You two know each other don’t you?”

 

“Sure, we do.”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

Well, life currently seemed to be going far more swimmingly outside in the rain than it did in Harold’s living room.

 

But, eventually someone would have to actually speak. 

 

Apparently, John decided it would be him.

 

“We were just having dessert." He set the Floating Islands down. "Won’t you join us? There’s still plenty.”

 

“Just coffee.” The languid flirtations were started to turn into terse remarks.

 

“Please, sit down.” Harold retrieved another chair for Monica, and then proceeded to do what he did best: fly away. “I’ll, uh-- I’ll get another cup. I won’t be more than a second.”

 

So, now John and Monica were sitting face to face.

 

Now, the elephant in the room was expanding exponentially by the second.

 

“I… I suppose I should have called first.”

 

“Yes.” John easily agreed, a facetious smirk peeking out from behind his normally stoic eyes. “Do that next time.”

 

Monica could only stare, her own eyes bulging ever so slightly. And, soon, even staring was becoming difficult.

 

Something that Harold, who was normally quite obtuse when it came to human interaction, picked up on immediately.

 

But, he could only awkwardly chuckle upon returning, having no idea why the room dropped another twenty degrees in temperature.

 

“Did I miss something?”

 

“No, no. Ms. Cutler was saying that she should have phoned before dropping in." Another pause, this one purposefully pregnant.  "I agreed."

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Well, it never occurred to me that anybody would ever be here.” Harold looked up at this, righteously affronted at the jab.

 

“Thank _you_.” Gratuity that lacked any proper sense of it -- only Harold could produce such a sharp tone in John's opinion. 

 

“Is it still raining out there, Miss Cutler?”

 

“Why, Mr. Reese?” She now moved from disbelief to barely disguised anger. “Are you waiting for it to stop?”

 

“Nope. Sugar?” She primly accepted only one cube.

 

“Cream?”

 

“No, thank you.”

 

Those subtly smirking eyes were making a comeback, hiding themselves once again behind a innocent and good-natured expression.

 

And, this time, Harold was absolutely oblivious.

 

“You know, being this civilized is ridiculous. I mean, this looks fairly primitive to me,” But, it appeared that Monica was having a hard time getting the marbles out, so to speak. “Unless, of course, there’s some other explanation?”

 

_“Other than what?”_ For someone who was an old coat for the last seven years, Harold was beginning to feel as though it was time to get out of this particular closet.

 

“Oh, it’s very easy to explain.”

 

“I hope so. It looks pretty… queer.” At this, Harold outright glared at Monica.

 

“I am beginning to get mad.”

 

“ _You_ are beginning to get mad?” At this, Harold couldn't help but let snappish words escape.

 

“What right had you to come barging in here, making noises like some sort of incensed bull?”

 

“I wasn’t making noises! I was thinking them, but I wasn’t making them.”

 

“Well, they were--”

 

“Oh, come on." John really was better as a migratory engineer than a diplomat. "After all, it really is quite simple to explain.”

 

“If there’s going to be any explanation, I’d like it to be from Harold.”

 

“Well, I personally feel as though she doesn’t currently deserve any such explanation, Mr. Reese! I’ve never been in such an idiotic position.”

 

“Okay, okay, let’s calm down, Harold,” Monica glared at the use of his first name. “Miss Cutler.”

 

They gave the man their attention, but he was definitely on ice thinner than a pin.

 

“All that happened was we bumped into a lost girl as we were parting ways at the office. Since it had just started to rain, we couldn’t just leave her there. So, we got caught in the rain, eventually finding her family. And then the girl’s guardians insisted on driving us home, and Harold -- that is, Mr. Finch -- invited me upstairs to dry off.”

 

It didn’t really seem to be a story that Monica was convinced to put stock in. But, as taciturn as the migratory engineer could be, he currently seemed to be willing to continue to verbally put his foot in his mouth.

 

“And, the robe's not mine, Harold was kind enough to let borrow one of his. Speaking of Harold,” He looked the man directly in the eyes. “Are you going to eat your Floating Island?”

 

“I certainly am.” The reference head proceeded to stab into said Floating Island.

 

But Monica was still determined to get answers.

 

“I don’t get it.”

 

“Isn’t this absolutely delicious, Mr. Reese?”

 

“I just don’t get it. You’re not the Harold I know at all.” He almost slammed the fork onto the table at this. But good manners had been long since ingrained and he wasn't about to ruin a perfectly fine utensil.

 

“No, Monica, I’m not.” Another hurried bite, another attempt to treat himself to something rather decent and another try at ignoring seven years of veiled frustrations. “You think I’m just an old coat hanging in your closet. Well, that shows how much you know. There’s a constant stream of admirers in and out of here, day and night-- I can’t seem to even extract them from my hair.”

 

The doorbell buzzed in agreement at this.

 

“See? Another one.” John turned to Harold, a playful air accompanying his words. “Uh, shall Ms. Cutler and I go into the bedroom, or are we all three adults here?”

 

“Oh, shut up, Mr. Reese.” He really was in quite a horrid mood now. And, no, not even his Floating Island appeared to help. “Come on in!”

 

But, whoever was paying a visit wasn’t doing them the favor of opening the door. So, Monica bolted out of her chair in lieu of glaring daggers into Reese. She was closest to the door, after all.

 

“Well, hello!” Joss was always one for rolling with the punches, even when she was completely caught off guard. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on your way to Chica--”

 

She came to a stilted halt upon seeing Mr. Reese with tousled wet hair, all wrapped up in Harold’s bathrobe and clearly wearing nothing else underneath.

 

“Well." A blushing sort of silence. "I-- I don’t know what you’re supposed to be.”

 

“Got caught in the rain.” Was the sheepishly gruff excuse, as though John had no idea why his current appearance made for such an unusual scene.

 

But, he could tell this was all poking and teasing was draining Harold of his dignity -- not to mention his diminishing energy. So, even John knew now was not the time to push it. Especially not if he wanted to melt away the crystallized walls shielding the man.

 

“Well, I guess I better put my clothes on. I left them in the bedroom.” He paused, watching Harold look at the floor as though he wanted to be anywhere but here. “Oh, I’m sorry, Harold.” He resisted the urge to snicker at Monica’s stony expression, knowing he really did have to call it a night on the not-so-innocuous teases.

 

“As of a matter of fact, I left them in the bathroom.” And with that, he retreated.

 

At this, Monica turned to Joss and gave her a look. Harold was still attempting to enjoy the dessert so, naturally, his back was to the two other individuals.

 

“Joss, would you mind?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

And then there were only two in the blazingly uncomfortable living room.

 

“I suppose I should have called before I dropped in, but the last thing I expected was--”

 

“If you’re going on about how the last thing you expected was to find me not alone--”

 

“Don’t, Harold. That’s unfair.” She stepped forward, putting an arm on his shoulder. He merely deflated. “If I thought that way about you, why would I always be hanging around?”

 

As Monica tried to embrace Harold once again, he firmly pushed her away.

 

“I find that to be a bit of a puzzle, myself.” It was cold but accurate.

 

“Look, Harold, we’ve known each other for six years now.”

 

“ _Seven._ ”

 

“And it’s been a fine relationship." She continued, used to the interruptions and also used to ignoring them. "No strings on either of us.”

 

“Quite correct.” Came the dejected murmur.

 

“And I’ve learned to depend on you for many things--” She finally managed to snake her arms around his so as to garner a hug. “Your warmth, your wit, your understanding.”

 

Said hug was not reciprocated in the slightest. But, Monica was never one to be deterred.

 

“You’ve become a part of my life.”

 

_Have I, though? Truly?_

 

“And that is why I want to ask you this.”

 

_Ask me... what exactly?_

 

The sincerity now flooding the room lifted Harold’s head. An inkling of hope rose. The thought that that maybe this relationship would be going somewhere again, that they could have intoxicatingly sweet moments like they did seven years ago, lifted his hesitating heart off the floor.

 

She held his gaze firmly, arms tightening.

 

“Try not to let our relationship be destroyed by what happened here tonight.”

 

The deflation kicked back in.

 

“I was wrong coming in like that.”

 

The heart sank back to the floor.

 

“And though you were going down an  _unusual_  path tonight," Ah, yes, that hint of homophobia was indeed making a brief comeback. "I was wrong for taking it for granted that you’d be here all al-- No, I won’t ever say that again.” She released him, a grin reappearing with ease. “Look, let’s not talk anymore tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Oh, come to think about it, I won’t. I’ll be in Chicago.” Harold was dragged in for another kiss, one he still didn't want even as he forced his lips to press against hers. “Well, I’ll call you the first chance I get.”

 

“Goodnight, Harold.”

 

“Goodnight, Monica.”

 

The door closed, allowing the man to let go of his weary, seemingly stupid hopes and slip into something that resembled an exhausted form of introspection.

 

But, he wasn't going to be given a lot of time to mope.

 

Not if John had anything to say.

 

“All clear?”

 

It was as though Monica had never entered the abode. For now Harold couldn’t fight the genuine smile at the sound of John’s voice returning. He couldn't escape the twinkle embracing his eyes as he was greeted with a familiar sight: John in one of his more handsome suits, soon to be complete with a dashing fedora.

 

“You can tell the five other lovers they can come out from under the bed.” It was at this remark that Joss came back from the kitchen, cheeriness being swapped for overt curiosity.

 

“Will someone _please_ fill me in?”

 

“Well, you see, Joss, it all started with a beautiful child by the name of Leila. She and her guardians had ventured into the city to explore some of Midtown. And she had gotten separated, had become so terribly lost.” He started to nod at the two in lieu of uttering the words "goodbye", beginning to head in the direction of the exit. “It was raining. Still is, apparently. Nevertheless, --”

 

“Would you like to stay and finish off your Floating Island, Mr. Reese?” Harold had spoken before he thought the question through, but he wasn’t going to take it back now. “After all, I’d hate for it to go to waste. _And_ , you did just admit it's still raining."

 

Joss did a double-take at this, having never heard that kind of tone come from her friend.

 

John could only smile in response.

 

No sarcastic sass, no witty comeback or sly remark.

 

Just a small simple smile.

 

“A chance to continue enjoying one of my favorite desserts," 

 

He started to speak, wandering back to his chair of the evening. He couldn't help but observe how Harold's beam unconsciously grew the closer he got.

 

" _And_ two of my favorite people?"

 

Suddenly, Joss was getting the feeling that she was going to have to excuse herself a lot earlier than normal.

 

But, for now, John only had one more thing to say.

 

" _Always._ " 


	9. Well, If This Is It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who know the movie quite well, this chapter plays around a little with details. And, just to give those who aren’t all that familiar with the movie a heads up, we’re jumping all the way to the holiday season!

_ “Hark, the Herald Angels sing, _

_ Glory to the Newborn King,” _

 

It was a crisp sunny day in December. Giant candy canes stood over those trekking through the plaza and an enormous Christmas tree, a white spruce that stood at sixty-four feet, captivated all. 

 

It truly was the season to be jolly.

 

… Unless you worked for the Reference Department

 

_._

 

“Mr. Ingram will see you now, Mr. Reese.”

 

It was yet another one of those meetings -- though they were getting few and farther between the closer this project came to completion.

 

The migratory engineer stood up, a calm half-smile etched into his face.

 

If all went well in the next thirty minutes, he could happily bask in the holiday cheer. If not, well, basking could wait.

 

_._

 

Normally, Fusco didn't always care for the festivities. He liked a good party just like everyone else, but it could be annoying at times to see people in such a genuinely good mood -- especially when it usually wasn't the case for him. 

 

But, this.

 

This was just sad.

 

“Why, good morning, Lionel!” Mr. Finch definitely had quite a few drinks. And even though he looked like he was having a blast, Fusco had observed the man for more than the last seven years.

 

This was like the mood he’d get after hearing someone gossip about how Monica was probably cheating on him. Or, whenever Mr. Reese was being particularly stubborn as of late.

 

True, a happy Mr. Finch was nice sight to watch.

 

But a genuinely carefree Mr. Finch was a real treat.

 

_._

 

“Are you sure you want this mistletoe right over the door?” Miss Hendricks didn’t really know all that much about mistletoe, but she found that the current placement was an interesting

 

“Certainly.” Joss said more assuredly. “Then if anything good drifts in we can  _ grab _ him.”  _ Unless it’s Mr. Reese, of course. He would, of course, have to be given to Harold. _

 

“Why don’t you wear it in your hair?” Sameen snarked almost playfully.

 

“Well, around 3 o’clock I just might.” The two women shared a grin that spoke of mischief at this -- or, rather, Joss grinned and Shaw just stared.

 

“Now, this may be the last Christmas party we’re going to throw here, so let’s have a little fun, shall we?” Joss said as she slipped the wine bottle out from one of the desks.

 

“Before lunch?” The woman nodded most seriously at this.

 

“Before lunch and for lunch and after lunch.” 

 

“What exactly is the company policy here at Christmas?” Grace finally asked.

 

“Anything goes,” Joss stated as she opened the bottle, “As long as you don’t lock the doors.”

 

Of course, even with it being the season to be jolly, they still had to pick up the phones when the numbers called. 

 

“Reference, Merry Christmas. Miss Carter.” She finished filling the cups to the brim right as the caller made their request.

 

“Yeah, sure, I can. You got a pencil?” She switched hands for convenience's sake. “Would you  _ please  _ write it down and file it away someplace? Every year, you people ask for the same information: Dasher, Prancer, Dancer and Vixen, Cupid, Comet, Donner and Blitzen. You’re welcome.”   
  


“They’re running true to form.” Shaw remarked once the phone was hung up. “Along about 4 o’clock, they’ll be calling up for a complete text of  _ A Visit From St. Nick. _ ”

 

Snickers resounded at this as the drinks were lifted. The girls toasted to whatever they pleased before downing their glasses, trying their hardest to revel in any form of fun while it lasted.

 

“Merry Christmas, everybody!” Harold had already had at least one glass himself as he scurried into the office, Leon right at his tail. The man was wearing a stunning red coat, one that was went unnoticed because of all the presents he was struggling to carry.

 

“Grace,” It was indeed Christmas time if he didn’t care for formalities. “Can you grab all of these before I drop them? Thanks!” He used this newfound freedom to survey their little tree with delight. “Oh, the tree looks wonderful! I told you the old-fashioned kind are the prettiest.” He spent another minute examining it in earnest before turning his attention to his current priorities.

 

 

“That’s the food,” Harold said, gesturing to one of the two baskets Leon brought in. “And, this is for laughs.” He proceeded to pull the champagne bottle out of the second basket before plopping uncharacteristically down into a chair. “I’ve had a couple of laughs already.”

 

“Who hasn’t?”

 

It was at this point that Leon decided to drop off the cards he'd been given to deliver so he could escape the tipsy Head of Reference.

 

“More Christmas cards, ladies,” He handed said cards off to Joss before making to retreat.

 

“Oh, hey! Wait a second, Leon!” Harold pulled out a little envelope. “From the Reference Department to you.”

 

“Gee, thanks, everyone! And Merry Christmas, too.”

 

“Same to you, Leon.”

 

“Oh, oh, wait another moment, Leon!” The Reference Head dragged himself out of the chair, still struggling to properly open the champagne bottle. “Did they give you anything over in Legal?”   
  


“No.”

 

“Well, the mail boy we had last year, I told him to go over and make a big show of what we gave him, and it worked. They met our figure.” Leon nodded at this, mentally admitting that he was intrigued about making a little extra money on the side. 

 

But, Harold wasn’t done giving advice.

 

“Do you have a nice, crisp $5 dollar bill?” The younger man nodded once more, retrieving a decent bill out of his pocket. “Yes, well, add that to it. And, feel free to come to our party later.” At this, Harold managed to pop the cork, sending an explosion of champagne into the room.

 

“Ladies, the cups!”

 

“Happy New Year!”

 

“The cups, the cups!”

 

_._

 

The engineer stepped onto the floor oblivious to everything but the paperwork at hand and the secretary he needed to converse with.

 

“I’m expecting Miss Mahoney from my lab. She’ll be asking for me. Will you send her over to Reference when she comes?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese.” The woman hiccuped even as she tried to maintain decorum. “I’ll be glad to.” He gave a glance at the second hiccup, having a suspicion as to why they were occurring.

 

“You ought to drink a little something for those hiccups.”

 

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

 

_._

 

Chatter and alcohol was abundant in the department, even amidst the phones ringing

 

“Hey, wait a minute.” The bottle was retrieved for round six of drinks. “I may need that!”

 

“Reference, Mr. Finch. Merry Christmas!” A pause. “Oh, yes! Indeed, I can. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen--”

 

“You’re kidding me! _Again?_ ”

 

“-- Donder and Blitzen. No worries. It’s a pleasure!”

 

“Give me my bottle, quick.” Joss said, taking one just for herself as she began to settle into another drink.

 

“What do you suppose it’ll be like here next Christmas when we’re gone?” Shaw lounged in the chair, managing to halt the festivities with not only that one question but a sarcastic follow-up. “Do you think EMMARAC will throw a party?”

 

  
“Oh, don’t talk that way, it’s bad luck. It’s Christmas, after all!” Grace reproachfully lectured.

 

“That's right. It’s Christmas.”

 

“Well, if we do get canned, we won’t be the only ones to lose our jobs because of a machine.”

 

“I understand thousands of people are being replaced by these electronic brains.” It was at this that Harold, for all of his worries and all of his own anxieties about the future, had to interrupt this downer of a conversation.

 

“Hey! Look, this card is from Mildred Pittinger.” The envelope was expertly opened. “She had your job, Grace.” 

 

“I know what it is! It’s a picture of herself and her husband.” The card was opened.

 

“ _ Ooh! _ ” Harold almost cooed alongside Joss, who was unashamedly looking over his shoulder. “They had a baby!”

 

“Aww, it’s cute.”

 

“It’s tolerable, I suppose.”

 

“All babies are cute.”

 

“Well, let’s drink to Mildred’s baby!”

 

“Mildred’s baby!”

 

The entrance door opened.

 

“Merry Christmas, ladies!” Logan Pierce, thoroughly toasted and still mostly in control of his faculties strutted happily into the room.

 

“Merry Christmas!”

 

“It’s my great pleasure to inform you that the party over in legal has started and that all you lovely ladies -- and Harold -- are invited.”

 

“Let’s go! I love legal -- it’s all men.”

 

“Shall we?” He said, extending his arms out to the ladies.

 

“I’ll take my champagne. They won’t have any in legal!” 

 

As the women took his arm, everyone felt quite inspired.

 

_ “Dashing through the  _ snow 

_ In a one-horse open sleigh. _

_ O’er the fields we go, _

_ Laughing all the way!” _

 

They all pranced out of the Reference Department: Shaw was dragged by Logan and Grace, Joss and Harold were following behind merrily.

 

It was definitely shaping up to be a glorious event and would hopefully stay that way.

 

_._

 

Mr. Reese finally made it to the Reference Department. Nevertheless, it was quite deserted.

 

This didn't really bother him: he had never cared terribly much for the holiday season. He instead preferred to enjoy it to the extent that a cautious individual would.

 

Furthermore, he could smell the alcohol scattered throughout the office from a mile away. Now, just because it was the holiday season didn't mean everyone had to abandon their post.

 

The phone rang, calling once again for his undivided attention.

 

“Hello?” He frowned a bit at the speaker. “Uh, Santa Claus’s Reindeer? Uh, why, yes. Yes, I can. Let me see now, there’s Dopey, Sneezy, Grouchy, Happy, Sleepy, Rudolph, and Blitzen.” 

 

He seemed so pleased that he seemed to remember this correctly that his lips twitched a moment as the caller thanked him. 

 

“You’re welcome!”

 

Harold chose that moment to come through the door, another bottle in hand. 

 

“Oh…” The man slowed to a halt, sheepishly averting Mr. Reese’s penetrating gaze. “Merry Christmas.”

 

“Merry Christmas.” Harold could only grin at this remark, so very intoxicated. “I was in earlier asking for you, but you were late this morning.”

 

“I know. But it’s alright: I brought a note from my mother.” John chuckled at this, realizing that he enjoyed this atypical side to his friend -- even if he disapproved at this indecorous behavior.

 

After all, he was still a professional at heart.

 

“Nothing much gets done around here today, does it?” At this, Harold put down the third bottle he had been trying to open -- the first two were now rather empty.

 

“Oh, well, we never work here anyway.” He leaned in to whisper conspiratorially to his friend. “This is our playpen -- our safe haven.”

 

Granted, Harold, too, could play the role of a professional. And, so he was going to do try to do so, if only for John's sake. 

 

“If you’re planning to work, the budget is over there on the desk. Grace finished it.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

They made for an interesting contrast. Harold was still decked out in that cardinal coat of his -- buzzing with excitement. John cut a more white-collar type of figure, dressed in one of his nicer suits. And, the Head of Reference buzzed with alcohol and giddiness, the migratory engineer held purpose in his veins.

 

“But,” Harold spoke in a sing-song type of tone. “If you’re gonna ready our budget, why don’t you let us read  _ your  _ report?”

 

“My report? Oh, I’ve already sent that in.” A very large frown quickly found a home on Harold’s face at this.

 

“Oh, have you?”

 

“Yup.”

 

The door opened once again.

 

“Oh,  _ there  _ you are!” Joss was not normally for shouting across the room. But this was a day to celebrate and so she had no qualms about loudly announcing her entrance. “I was looking all over for you.”

 

“I came in here to find something.” Harold gave what he thought was a coy gesture to the other bottle.

 

John was once again unimpressed.

 

“If you take that champagne back to Legal, you won’t even get another swallow!” Joss was totally leading Harold in a drunken circle that would bring him back to her desk.

 

“That’s so true. Join me, Joss?”

 

“Certainly!” They grabbed two cups. “How does champagne go with four Roses, Scotch, Martinis, and Bloody Marys?”

 

“Oh, perfectly fine. They’re all the same base -- alcohol." They shared a grin at this. "Pull up a chair, Joss, and rest yourself.”

 

“What year is that?"

 

“1947.” Joss nodded approvingly.

 

“It was a good year.”   
  


“Not for me, it wasn’t.” Harold loudly declared, hands still fumbling with the bottle. “It was the year of the blizzard, remember?” The cork finally popped once more. “I spent Christmas Eve in a subway station at Canal Street.”

 

“Aww.” Joss said, allowing a frown to temporarily contort her lips. “Hey, you know, that reminds me. Just as I was getting off the Mexican Avenue bus last night--” Harold let out a loud snort at this.

 

“What’s so funny?” Now Joss was cross at this interruption. But Harold couldn’t stop laughing for a solid moment before straightening up into a facade of dignity.

 

“‘The Mexican Avenue bus’.” He repeated with a straight face. “Don’t you mean the ‘Mexington’ Avenue bus?” Realization clicked on her face and she busted up laughing with him, finally getting why he was so tickled.

 

“Ha! So I do!”

 

At this, John couldn’t help but hold a small smile -- so tickled himself about their obvious mistake. After all, they clearly meant the “Lexington” Avenue bus.

 

“Anyway, here was this brand new Coupe De Ville with the most  _ attractive _ -looking man in it. And he slowly drove around the block three times. And I could tell by the way he was looking at me, that if I had been any other kind of a girl, it would have been the start of a very  _ beautiful _ romance!”

 

Mr. Reese clearly disagreed. But he wasn’t about to engage the two friends in any potential conversation. That would only lead to childish pouts and loud snorts of disbelief.

 

“More power to you!” Another quick gulp of champagne. “You may be lonely, but more power to you! For it has usually been my experience, when a car cruises around the block slowly…. It has usually been my experience that they are mostly just looking for a place to park.” They erupted into further snorts and giggles, fully invested in their drinking even though it hadn’t even hit noon yet.

 

John could only stare on in faint disbelieving disapproval once again.

 

“Joss,” Harold leaned in once again, looking as though he was carrying the world’s largest secret and he just couldn’t keep it in. “Did you know that our Mr. Reese  _ also  _ lives on the Mexington Avenue bus?”

 

“Does he now?"

 

“Oh, yes! Joss, Joss,” Harold gestured for her to lean further in, as though they weren’t going to be overheard by bumping their heads together. “Can’t you just see him standing there in his serape and bare feet, holding onto the strap?”

 

John shook his head at this, mentally reminding himself to appreciate a carefree Harold Finch. 

 

The phone rang.

 

“They’re gone for the day.” He firmly told the caller, pleased that Joss and Harold were still too oblivious to argue or to take the phone into their own hands.

 

“Have some tequila, Joss.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think I should. There are 85 calories in a glass of champagne.”

 

“Ooh, really? I have a little place in my neighborhood where I can get it for 65.” But Harold's attention turned in mid-toast, finally noticing their other companion.

 

“Hey. EMMARAC!” John looked up, mentally preparing himself for whatever was going to happen next. “Would you stop fussing that budget for a minute and answer a question?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Two chairs were lightly dragged over to where John was situated. 

 

“Just for kicks! You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to. I mean, don’t dwell on the question, but I must warn you there’s a trick in it.” Harold seemed to have straightened himself at this. But, his coat still managed to be askew and his hair became even more bird-like at this.

 

Mr. Reese could only give the man his most facetious look.

 

“If six men get off at a train at Las Vegas, and two of them are found floating face down in a goldfish bowl, and the only thing they can find to identify them are two telephone numbers -- 1, Plaza, 0-0000, and the other, Columbus 0-1492 --- what time did the train get to Palm Springs?”

 

John chuckled at this, having adored watching the man’s taciturn tendencies get tossed out of the window today.

 

“9 o’clock.” He finally answered.

 

Harold leaned into the desk, resting his chin on his hand

 

“Now, would you mind telling me how you happened to get that?”

 

“Well, there are eleven letters in Palm Springs. You take away two men, that leaves nine.” Joss applauded energetically at this, having no idea what on earth was going on or why they were giving one another some kind of a look.

 

“You’re a sketch, Mr. Reese!”

 

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Finch.”

 

“How would you like to have some of our champagne?” He could only suppose a glass or two wouldn’t be particularly harmful.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The red coat was ditched for a particularly dashing suit complete with classy silver accent pieces and tie. In the meanwhile, Joss had retrieved their bottle and cups.

 

“Just fill it right up to the top.” Maybe the man could ditch his own habits of decorum for a day. “Thank you.”

 

“Now, drink it all down. It’s very good for you.” Harold spoke as though he’d researched the topic himself. Once John had proceeded to do so, Harold could only grin like a fool.

 

“And  _ now  _ you get to have your Christmas present, Mr. Reese!” A red present with a green bow was momentarily brought over, seemingly produced out of thin air.

 

“From the Reference Department to you.” The engineer smiled in surprise at this, having not expected any sort of gift.

 

“Well, thank you.”

 

“Just a little something we all thought you’d like.” 

 

The present was soon opened to reveal a gorgeous scarf.

 

“Those are your college colors, are they not, Mr. Reese?” It was that knowing tone, filled with warmth and pleasure, that coaxed a delectable beam out of the engineer.

 

“Well, if I had known this was my present, I would have worn my freshman cap.”

 

“This is in fact six feet long!” Harold pointed out as the scarf was delicately brought out of the box.

 

“Have you seen this, Joss?”

 

“Yes. Quite handsome. Good wool in that!”

 

“I really had to do some stepping to find it. There doesn’t seem to be much demand for that kind of a thing.”

 

“I don’t know what to say.” He eventually confessed, rather touched by it all.

 

“Just ‘Merry Christmas’ is all that’s necessary. And peace on Earth to men of good will, too.”

 

“Merry Christmas.” John murmured, still unable to stop from smiling. 

 

The three all exchanged hugs at this point in time, the scarf almost getting tangled up around both Harold and John at this action. But the men soon managed to untangle themselves after a minute, receiving no help from a snickering Joss.

 

That’s when a certain someone decided to strut into the room.

 

“Harold!” 

 

“Monica!”

 

At the sight of Monica, who was carrying a basket of her own and quite a few presents, John’s smiled faded and Joss’s eyes held a whisper of frustration.

 

They had all forgotten about her, honestly.

 

All except for Harold, of course.

 

“When did you get back?”

 

“Just got off the plane. I told you I’d make it back by Christmas. Hey, Joss!”

 

“Hi! The party started early this year. That gang’s over in Legal!”

 

“We’ll see you. These presents are for the office. Here.” Harold grabbed them, hurrying on back to the tree.

 

“Oh, thank you! I’ll put them under the tree.”

 

“Hello, Ms. Cutler.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Merry Christmas to you, Ms. Cutler. I like that hat.”

 

“And, I like that suit. You should wear it more often.”  _ Instead of, for instance, a certain bathrobe. _

 

“What’s in the basket, Monica?” 

 

“What else but champagne, Harold? ‘Tis the season, after all!” He chuckled at this, and neither of them noticed John quietly sinking back into the chair he was borrowing.

 

“Indeed, it is! Come on in to my office, I want to give you your present.” Harold proceeded to head back into the office, not even waiting for Monica to follow.

 

“Act surprised.” The engineer muttered, causing the woman to come to a halt. 

 

“Did you say something?”

 

“Who, me?”

 

_._

 

They entered the office to the sound of yet another bottle being opened.

 

“Here,” Harold said, handing Monica a glass. And, though she was happy she was also distracted by a certain pest.

 

“Does, uh, does he hang around here all the time?” Harold smiled at this, oblivious to the tone

 

“All the time.” He happily confessed, not really sure where this was leading.

 

“I see.” But, Monica was determined to make that -- and any business -- no matter of relevance today.

 

Which is why she put a stop to Harold picking up the phone when it finally rang.

 

“No, not today.” She grabbed the phone as he was starting his Reference spiel. “To us.” She toasted instead.

  
“To us.”

 

“And, here’s your present!” A large, heavy box was put on the desk.

 

“Here’s yours. It’s a little smaller.” She grinned. “Open yours first.”

 

Harold beamed at this, knowing that even with the world’s view of who should do what in life, he would be oh so inordinately surprised if he found a certain kind of ring inside that little box.

 

“Should I?” But it was already being unwrapped with great energy. The box was soon opened and he let out even more of a light-hearted grin.

 

“Oh, Monica, these cufflinks are absolutely divine! Oh, thank you!” Harold now turned away his present and blushed. “Well, I can’t give you yours now. It’s just too silly.”

 

“As long as it’s not a robe.” She remarked dryly.

 

“Well, it’s as far away from a robe, Monica, as I could possibly get.” For even though she was a woman and not a man, receiving a robe after seeing John in Harold’s would probably be more unpleasant than anything else.

 

“Thank you!” The box was opened to reveal -- “Bongo drums! How did you know?”

 

“There was a sign over that said, ‘For the person who has absolutely everything’.”

 

“Have I?” Harold chuckled nervously at this, looking down at his cufflinks.

 

“Uh, has he?” He asked the inanimate object. But, she was having none of that.

 

“Harold,”

 

“Yes, Monica?”

 

“I had a chance to do some thinking in Chicago.”

 

“Did you enjoy it?” Monica smiled at this, brushing away the comment.

 

“Well, let’s face it, darling. The whole company’s had us married for seven years now.” Harold’s eyes widened in disbelief at this.

 

“Well, they succeeded where I failed.” 

 

There came a knock on the door, interrupting whatever Monica was going to respond with.

 

“Oh, go away.” Came the mutter.

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Finch.” Harold looked up, the faint gloom leaving his eyes at the sound of that voice.

 

“Oh, it’s you.” 

 

“I guess your phone is out of order. Either way, I’ve been taking your calls.” John paused, looking down at the notepad he’d brought in. “There’s someone called ‘Take Home the Loot’, and they would like to know the name of Scrooge’s partner, Scrooge’s first name, and how many brothers and sisters did Tiny Tim have?” Harold reached for the notepad but John just so happened to coincidentally pull it back, giving the man no opportunity to properly inspect it.

 

After all, Harold didn't need to know that the notepad had absolutely nothing written on it.

 

“Oh, yes, and Ingram’s office has been calling. They want you right away.” He said, meeting Monica's irritated glance with feigned ease.

 

“When did they call?”

 

“A few minutes ago.”

 

“Well, why didn’t you-- nevermind.” Monica was already turning around to get to Ingram via the back elevator. “I’ll see you later, Harold. Dinner?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good.”

 

And, so, the two were left alone.

 

“Bongo drums?” John asked curiously.

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese, bongo drums. It seemed like the sort of thing Monica would get a kick out of.”

 

And, true, the woman would probably find it to be a sweet and silly gift.

 

But, bongo drums were not as difficult to track down -- or as personal -- as a college scarf.

 

So, John smiled to himself, pocketing the notepad. But not before he noticed Harold give a shiver.

 

“Cold, Mr. Finch?” The man in question smiled sheepishly at this. 

 

“I suppose I have to admit it’s a bit chillier than normal today.”

 

Before he knew it, John found himself wrapping his scarf around the man, an action that brought a blush out of the both of them.

 

“Here, this should help.”

 

They stood still for just one beautiful moment. John hadn’t quite let of the scarf just yet, his fingers not only connected with the wool but also with Harold’s suit.

 

“Thank you, John.” Harold eventually said, consideration halting any normal blabber of superficial thanks the man would’ve attempted for anyone else.

 

“You’re welcome, Harold.”

 

They continued to stand, eyes unable to leave one another.

 

But, suddenly chatter swarming into the main room of their department and the peculiarly pleasant mood was broken. A flood of people were sailing merrily into the room, complete with a piano borrowed from Studio J. Off-key attempts of “Jingle, Jingle” loudly filled the room, and Harold was suddenly distracted by it all.

 

But, then the pianist changed up songs and very familiar notes wafted into the now open office. And it was quite necessary for the Reference librarian to chime in.

 

_ “Oh, the beat-beat-beat of the Tom-Tom,”  _ Harold stepped out of the office, adorably trying to sing along with the piano. 

 

_ “When the jungle shadows fall, _

_ Like the tick-tick-tock of the stately clock _

_ As it stands against the wall.” _

 

He was forced to pick up pace to avoid careening dancers, leaving behind Mr. Reese to busy himself with a quick inspection of the drums.

 

_ “Like the drip-drip-drip of the raindrops _

_ When the summer shower is through!”  _

 

The Reference Head whirled himself around, the scarf fluttering alongs with him, only to realize that John had been trailing right behind -- and those bongo drums were still brought along. 

 

But, even though Harold knows the intimacy that coats the next lyrics, he can't quite seem to stop himself from singing now.

 

_ “And the voice within me keeps repeating _

_ You,” _

 

Their eyes meet for a brief moment, uncertainty mixed in with happiness.

 

_ “You,” _

 

John can only smile, trying to tap to the rhythm of the song and doing an endearing rendition of the beat.

 

_ “You!” _

 

Oddly enough, there are no regrets as Harold continues. Nor did there seem to be any current regrets as he fixed his eyes on his-- as he allowed him to gaze at the man in that particularly dashing suit.

 

_ “Night and day, _

_ Da-la-dum-da!” _

 

Harold begins to dance as well as sing, trying so much not to trip into John but also trying to just enjoy himself for a few moments. He turns out into the room, catching Grace in the arms of some fellow from Legal, while Shaw and Zoe look through the crowd in faint disinterest. Joss has managed to get a bow wrapped around her hair, clearly having a blast with Mr. Beecher.

 

All in all, if this were to be their last Christmas in the office it was turning into a pretty darn good one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have no fear, the party’s not over yet! But I wanted to get something out before the weekend came to a close, and this was as good a time as any to pause.


	10. The Party's Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love making my musical theatre references (as evidenced by this title and so many others little references xD). Now, we’ll be dealing with a bit of angst, but we’ll only have to wade through these necessary waters for only a little bit -- not forever.
> 
> Also, I’m curious: Should I keep this an AO3 story or bring it to FFN as well?
> 
> And, finally, there’s three characters/cameos that have been snuck into this chapter. In order to make it work though, I had to alter their characterization and details just a smidge. 
> 
> Nevertheless, hope you enjoy this and a have a nice day!

“Bon voyage!” The streamers were flung off the railing with ease as the pair waved energetically to their friends.

 

“Goodbye, goodbye!” Harold turned to John, leaning over the railing with immense interest. “Is this your first Mediterranean cruise?”

 

“Yes,” He deadpanned, eyes softly twinkling as he observed Harold continue to wave enthusiastically back to the crowd. “But don’t tell anyone.”   
  


“Why ever not?”

 

“I’m the Captain.”

 

“ _ Oh.  _ Well, I’ll help you steer.” Harold smiled, willing to change the subject. “I’m independently wealthy, you know. I’ve made this cruise often.”

 

“Yes, yes. There’s something about the way you wear that pencil that spells money.” Harold chuckled at this, turning to his “sailing” companion.

 

“Isn’t money a lovely thing? I do hope they don’t take it away from us.”

 

“Who?”

 

“ _ They _ .” Harold gestured to the air with one hand, the other carefully holding onto his champagne. John awkwardly looked away at this, quite willing to change the subject again.

  
“Would you like to sit down? I think my deck chair is right next to yours.”

 

“Oh, I’m glad, Captain. Because I’ve forgotten where mine is.” They stepped away from the railing overlooking the Reference Center and walked into the mezzanine bookshelves.

 

“It’s right here.” John helped him to the floor.

 

“Why thank you, Skipper.” Once they were situated on the floor, a drunken form of courage bubbled inside of Harold. After all, if they could play this cruise charade, surely he could find out a piece of factual information.

 

“Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me, Skipper, why haven’t you married? Don’t you like women?” John took this in, suddenly wishing they had changed to a different subject.

 

But, he had a remark saved for such occasions, when he was unsure of the proper response.

 

“Oh, sure, I like women. Specifically as a sex, in fact.” Because, he  _ did  _ like women, he just didn’t care for being intimate with women.

 

“But not ‘pacifically’ enough to get married.”

 

“Oh, no, no. That’s not it at all.” He paused, before deciding to reveal some of the truth. “I just never found anyone willing to put up with me. Except for Jessica and Maxine, of course. Would you like more champagne?” The cup was taken far away from the bottle at this.

 

“No, Captain, I think not. What about Jessica and Maxine, ‘of course’?”

 

“Well, Jessica…. Jessica, was, uh,”  _ The kindest friend I could’ve ever ask for. Someone I can’t wait to see in the after life.  _ “Jessica was willing to put up with me right up until the car accident.” The mood darkened for a moment as he remembered hearing about  _ that  _ particular tidbit of news.

 

“Oh.” John looked up at this. “I’m truly sorry to hear that.”

 

Harold certainly looked it.

 

But they were already in deep waters as it is so there was no purpose in sailing into another topic now.

 

“Thank you.” He gruffly responded, before regaining some form of calm. “Now, Maxine on the other hand,” He even let out a small chuckle at the thought of that woman.

 

“Maxine’s a reporter,”

 

"A  _ female _ reporter?”

 

“Yup.” It had surprised him a little when he had first met her, too. “And, if it hadn’t been for the war--”

 

“I take it you got a “Dear John letter?” Another chuckle at this. 

 

“No, no, I got dozens of letters. But,” He said, pausing to figure out how to spell out this particular story.

 

“Imagine sitting on ice cap in Greenland and getting a six-page letter telling of all the events she was forced to report on -- shaving cream coming back into fashion for women, the women’s neckline was going to go up the following year.

 

“And then the next letter would be more complaints about how all she was given permission to write about was the hem skirt getting lowered. I don’t exactly look like a fellow who’s interested in women’s fashions, do I?” Harold snickered further at this rhetorical question, having been unable to keep from laughing this entire time.

 

“Not even in men’s. So, what happened?”

 

“Well, it had become clear to me that for all of her obvious irritations with reporting, that she was indeed married to the job. So, I continued to write to her -- any form of company on an ice cap is welcomed, after all. I eventually came back, once the war was over, and then I got the “Dear John” letter. In person, that is.” 

 

“That was quite a deviant trick.”

 

“What are you talking about? She’s very happy where she is in life because she’s realized her love for investigating.”

 

“That’s not why you didn’t marry Maxine.”

 

“The real reason is because you’re in love with someone else.”

 

“No kidding?” Harold emphatically nodded, drink spilling ever so slightly at this.

 

“No kidding.” He looked right into John’s eyes, a relentless drive clearly pushing him to speak. John met his gaze, quite intrigued and willing to see where this would possibly go.

 

“Who?” Harold continued to stare him down, a knowing look in his eyes.

 

“Emily EMMARAC, that’s who.” John laughed again, almost disappointed in how the direction they went. “That machine you created. You’re in love with her, she’s all you ever think about. That’s why your socks never match.”

 

“My socks?” John looked playfully affronted by this, even though he was still disappointed that -- for all of the certainty Harold carried -- the man was absolutely wrong. “My socks match today. Look!”

 

Harold tilted his head in a childlike fashion, craning his neck to get a better look at John’s socks.

 

“Why, so they do.”

 

“And they’ve matched for some time.” John leaned in at this, now being the one who was absolutely certain. “You just haven’t noticed it.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Their heads really were quite close now, not even a foot apart. 

 

“More champagne?”

 

The piano music had softened into a far more intimate piece, accentuating John’s smile.

 

But, it was getting just a tad too personal for Harold.

 

“No, no, thank you.”

 

The Head of Reference made to rise and got to his knees before a hand gently took hold of his wrist, bringing the man to a pause.

 

“I’ll bet you write wonderful letters.”

 

They continued to share a particular look, one that was filled with a gentle warmth and a wonderful uncertainty. There was also a haze brought on by alcohol and holiday cheer that could be -- and probably would be -- the excuse for the two men to just keep still. The shelves seemed to inclose them from the rest of the world, taking away expectations and giving them a respite from society's judgements .

 

_ “ _ Harold!  _ Harold!  _ You’re wanted on the telephone! _ ” _

 

He still couldn’t quite break away.

 

“You’re wanted on the telephone.” Fortunately, or unfortunately perhaps, John was able to help Harold stand up. The engineer himself remained on the floor of the mezzanine.

 

But the Reference librarian was soon on his way down. And, only a short while later, back in his office

 

“Reference, Mr. Finch.”

 

_ “Mr. Finch? Samantha.” _ Harold can’t help but roll his eyes at this. As much as he appreciated Samantha Groves -- and it’s true he did rather appreciate the escape she unknowingly just gave him -- he was still shocked by what just happened.  _ “Flash: Monica Cutler has just been made a Vice President, and she’s on her way down to see you.” _

 

Harold faintly chuckled at this, figuring it to be some form of holiday humor.

 

“Who made him a Vice President, Miss Groves, you?”

 

_ “I should say not. Mr. Ingram did!” _ Harold froze as she continued to speak.  _ “Also, if you could tell Sameen to pay a visit, I’ve got a little something for her.” _

 

“I will.” Harold muttered, dazed by the emotions whirling around him. Monica, a woman, now a Vice President. John, a man he had just started to see in a frightfully glorious new light. 

 

All of this was making his mind twirl around like ballerina after ten shots of tequila.

 

Eventually, he put the phone down. Didn’t know exactly how he did that, seeing as there were a million other thoughts and emotions flying around him but it did happen.

 

And, soon, the door was rattling.

 

_ “Harold? Harold, darling!” _

 

“Come in, Miss Vice President!” Monica allowed herself to outright giggle at this through the back door, spinning Harold into a hug once she entered the room.

 

“Isn’t it great?” Her grin widened. “When Mr. Ingram started to talk to me seriously, I thought, ‘Well, I guess this is it.’. Especially with the way things have been so mysterious around here lately.”

 

“Sure, sure.”

 

“And then it turned out to be a Vice Presidency. Vice President in charge of all West Coast Operations!”

 

He did a double-take at this.

 

_“_ ** _West_** Coast? _”_ But she paid him no heed.

 

“I’ve ordered two tickets. We’re finally going to take that plunge, Harold!” Monica ecstatically leaned in, a gleam of dazzling adventure in her eyes. “We leave here Tuesday, and we’ll be married on the coast.”

 

“Tues--  _ this _ Tuesday?”

 

“Sure, why not?” Harold backed out of her embrace, stepping to the side.

 

“Well, for one thing, my apartment.”

 

“Oh, Joss can take care of that. Giving away apartments these days is like giving away  _ diamonds _ .” At this, Monica approached Harold once again -- though the man subtly turned his body away once again.

 

“Yes, but, well, there’s my job. And I can’t just walk--”

 

“I’m a Vice President, darling! I hereby transfer you to the West Coast to take care of me.” Harold could be persistent, but Monica was just as if not more so. “Anything else?”

 

“Well, what about my team, Monica? I can’t _leave_ them when they’re so worried about their jobs.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t help you there. I, for one, do not propose to take them on my honeymoon.” Harold faintly laughed at this, not at all tickled. “But they’re all invited out to visit us next summer when we have our own house.” Monica beamed even more at the thought, hugging Harold. “Our own house, darling! Doesn’t that sound absolutely divine?”

 

But, Harold still wasn’t quite smiling. Not, at least, the way Monica wanted him to.

 

“What’s the matter, Harold?”   
  


“Nothing, nothing.” He tried to look away, to ignore the unpleasant feelings now taking over him. “It all just flew at me so quickly I just can’t think.” And, now, the pounding sound of bongo drums being played were definitely not helping.

 

“What’s there to think about?” Monica stepped away, happiness now beginning to give way to confusion and raising her voice. “What, did you want to marry the Federal Broadcasting Company?”

 

“There's no need to shout, Monica."

 

“I’m not shouting, I’m just trying to make myself heard over those bongo drums!” The door gets fiercely shut. “Who’s playing them anyway?” She glanced out the window. “Oh, Mr. Reese. Of course. Who else would be making that kind of a racket?” 

 

They held one another’s stare for a solid ten seconds as she silently accused and he began to analyze.

 

“Well, what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Oh, Harold.” There was that inevitable tone of disbelief he hadn't heard for more than a month.

 

“I honestly have no idea of what you’re talking about, Monica.”

 

Now the woman was getting angry.

 

“When two people want to get married, they don’t worry about apartments or jobs or anything. Look, I had every reason to think you wanted this just as much as I did.”

 

At this, Harold stilled in anger. 

 

“You had every reason to think I wanted it  _ twice  _ as much as you did.” And still she ignored him.

 

“But now you’ve changed your mind for what I find to be some pretty ridiculous reasons!”

 

_ “Oh!” _

 

“And, when I think of all of that fluff I swallowed that cozy night at your apartment-- for heaven’s sake, I even apologized to you for that. And now this ‘I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about routine.” She outright glared at him, angrily stepping forward to poke a finger into his chest. “Look, _Harold_ , I don’t know what kind of a game you’re playing at, but you’ve got the wrong woman!”

 

“Monica!” But, it was no use. She was already headed to the back elevator, intent on ignoring him.

“And after seven years of waiting!”  The door was forcefully closed.

 

_ "You  _ waited seven years!” Harold wrenched the door open, wanting to shout some rather strong words at the woman.

 

But he could only huff in aggravation, settling for mercilessly slamming the door shut.

 

Of course, this is when Joss decided to enter the room, completely oblivious to what just transgressed.

 

“Harold, John's taking us to the plaza for a drink."

 

_“What?_ ” Joss turned around, leaning out of the now open glass door.

 

“He says yes!” The woman then turned back to Harold, a grin lighting up her face. “Now, c’mon and get ready so we can continue the party!”

 

Immediately, Harold put on his coat and followed his friend to meet up with the others. He was still most definitely in shock at everything that happened within the last ten minutes -- probably would be for quite some time. But, he was also most definitely glad for an opportunity to share a few more drinks with some wonderful people.

 

And, much to his immense pleasure, he spotted John wearing a particular scarf that looked absolutely dashing alongside the man's customary suit and fedora.

 

“Lead on, my Captain.” Harold wryly muttered to John, enjoying the fact that this made the man laugh. The group head off to the exit, the last of the people left in the room, and almost collide into someone who was rather late to the party.

 

“Mr. Reese!” Everyone came to a halt, not exactly sure as to who this stranger was or how she came to know John.

 

“Hello,” He politely greeted her, still trying to get through the entrance and not really paying this stranger any real attention.

 

“I’m Miss Mahoney from your lab.”  _ What on Earth? _

 

At this, John also came to a stop.

 

“Oh?” 

 

“You remember me, don’t you, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Of course I remember--”

 

“Well, anyway, I had the most awful time trying to find you. Things are very strange around here today, aren’t they?”

 

“Uh, I suppose they are.” John still had his back to Harold, now suddenly hating every moment of this. “As a matter of fact, Miss Mahoney, I don’t think it was a good idea for you to come here today. What do you say we let this whole thing go until after Christmas?” But, Miss Mahoney was already starting to walk away from the group -- she seemed determined to investigate the place. 

 

“You’ll probably get a terribly wrong impression of the place today.”   
  


“Oh, I can discount that, Mr. Reese. I’m just interested in the physical layout.” Which she immediately began to scan with disdain. “We’re going to be crowded in here, aren’t we? Of course, we could move this desk forward.  _ Or _ , maybe leave it here where it is and I could use it for my punch card!”

 

“Get away from this desk! This desk is mine!” Grace was not one for shouting or spouting any form of cruelty. But she had worked far too long here to just let this Mahoney character trivialize her workspace.

 

“What’s going on, Mr. Reese? What’s going to happen here?” And they had been so very, very close to being on a public first-name basis.

 

 

“Uh, well, Miss Mahoney is an expert in electronics, and she’ll… Well, she’ll be in charge of EMMARAC.” Harold stiffened far more so than he did when talking to Monica. “She’ll be installed here -- that is, of course..." He paused, having wanted to delay this for just another day. "EMMARAC will be installed here on Monday.”

 

“And according to Mr. Reese’s figures, it will save, in this department alone, 6,240 man-hours a year.”

 

“How  _ ingenious  _ of Mr. Reese.” 

 

“Now, why don’t we all go over to the plaza and have that drink we were--” But, Harold was having none of that.

 

“Why don’t you and Miss EMMARAC go over and hoist a few?”

 

“It’s actually Miss Mahoney.”

 

“Oh, I  _ am  _ sorry. I have such a terrible memory.”

 

“ _Really?_ And you chose to go into reference work with a bad memory?” John really had to step in before Harold ripped the woman to shreds.

 

“Be careful, Miss Mahoney. You’re in the Major Leagues here. C’mon.” And he soon guided her out of the room, knowing that it was too late to apologize for the fiasco this was turning into.

 

Once she was politely shoved out of the door, he turned around to try to say something -- maybe even get a chance to apologize.

 

But, Harold beat him to the punch.

 

“And a very Merry Christmas to you, too.” The man spoke, quite robotically. 

 

John could only look back in regret, wanting to say so much more. But he also knew that he couldn’t really say anything at all.

 

Not when all of them were coldly staring him down.

 

So, the door is soon closed and he's gone. And they all just stand there in silence for a good long minute. Harold slowly paces the area, aimlessly walking as he tried to process everything that just happened.

 

But it's all just too much.

 

“Somebody say something funny.” He weakly muttered, finally deciding to lean against Grace’s desk for support.

 

Only the ringing phone dares to speak up.

 

“I’ll do it.” He said before any of them had a chance to move. “Reference Department, Mr. Finch.”

 

Because even when their world, their way of life for almost a decade, was being swept out like it were garbage… Harold needed to be formal.

 

And, so, he listened.

 

“Yes, yes I can.” He paused, trying to focus on the request and less so on the irony the request delved into. 

 

_ “'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house  _

_ Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;  _

_ The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,  _

_ In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;  _

_ The children were nestled all snug in their beds;  _

_ While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads…’” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I certainly can’t leave this story hanging on such a lugubrious note for a week! So, I suppose there’ll just have to be another update before the weekend is up <3
> 
> And, for such a dreary chapter, one of my favorite quotations from the film is in fact embedded in it. Care to take a guess?


	11. EMMARAC

Fusco didn’t need to be a detective -- or even listen to the grapevine -- to know that things were going horribly for the Reference Department. 

 

All he needed was to stand next to the worn-out workers the first time they had trudged into the elevator after all of the holiday festivities had come to an end.

 

T hat had started about two weeks ago.

 

And probably wasn't going to end any time soon.

_._

 

The “NO SMOKING”, “KEEP DOOR CLOSED”, and the “WARNING! DO NOT TOUCH” signs were put up with mechanical ease.

 

EMMARAC was properly coming to life, having been efficiently installed for a little while now. It whirred away frantically, lights beeping at random moments in synchronicity, the sounds of technology chugging away.

 

Their little home was now quite a few degrees colder, and not just because they needed to maintain a consistent temperature.

 

And, finally, Miss Claire Mahoney was now the caretaker of this “good samaritan” -- as Harold had frostily referred to it only a few hours in.

 

The machine loudly beeped upon the woman inputting information into it. 

 

She was alone.

 

“Good girl, good girl!” And Claire did smile at her precious machine’s performance -- until the door opened to an irritated Joss Carter.

 

“Miss Carter, please! These doors must be kept closed at all times. You _know_ how sensitive EMMARAC is to changes in temperature.”

 

“Sorry.” _Not sorry_. “Here are the rest of Bartlett’s quotations.”

 

“Thank you,” But the younger woman was already cringing as she examined the material. “Ugh, everything’s so dusty back there. One thing we don’t like, don’t like at all, is a speck of dust. Do we, Miss Em?”

 

This only prompted Joss to blow a dust cloud at the machine and smile oh-so-innocently as Miss Mahoney turned around to look at her.

 

At this, Miss Shaw came in, holding out a pad of paper with disdain. She had left the door wide open.

 

“Here.” She monotonously spoke, but was ignored by a rather scandalized Miss Mahoney.

 

“Oh, the door, Miss Shaw! The door! Please!”

 

“What about the doors?” Sameen asked whilst Grace went to gently slam it shut.

 

“You girls simply  _ must  _ remember to keep them closed.” At this, Sameen caught the “NO SMOKING” sign and decided to light one in the office.

 

“Emmy gets pneumonia if she gets caught in a drift.” Came the snark. Now, normally, Joss wouldn’t particularly care for Sameen’s habit of smoking suddenly being incorporated into their workspace. 

 

This time, she had no such qualms. 

 

But Miss Mahoney did -- so much so that she choked on the air, as though she’d caught Mr. Reese and Mr. Finch in some sort of explicitly compromising position.

 

“Oh,  _ please _ , Miss Shaw, really!” She promptly removed the cigarette from Sameen’s mouth and hurried off to toss it away somewhere outside the room.

 

Now, the workers were alone.

 

“Well, if we do have to leave, they’re sure making it easy for us.”

 

Sameen scowled at this, but Grace was determined to change the subject.

 

“Doesn’t Leon usually bring our paychecks earlier?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, why is he so late today?”

 

“There’s probably something  _ extra  _ in them. Like a pink slip about this big.”

 

“And it’s very polite. But, what it boils down to is,  _ goodbye _ and don’t slam the door on your way out.”

 

Speaking of doors, Harold was entering through one just now.

 

“Where’s Emmy’s mother?”

  
“She came into contact with Sameen, so she’s out scrubbing up.” Harold chuckled at this, having decided as a Christmas to voice his opinion of this matter whenever they were all alone.

 

The phone rang, and he went over to pick it up.

 

“City Morgue. Can I help you?” A clicking sound was heard. “Oh dear, they hung up.” 

 

They girls started to cackle at this, appreciating this sardonic side to their boss. 

 

Fortunately, Harold could be all business when Miss Mahoney returned to the room.

 

“Ah, there you are.” He stepped over, cordially handing her his information. “The complete history of the American buffalo. It, too, is becoming extinct.”

 

“Thank you!”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“Well, Miss Em is ready to go.”   
  


 

“She’s not the only one.” 

 

“Now, it's this little key that fascinates me the most, this little red one here.” It was all by itself, coyly poised near the center of controls. And, he even went out of his way to almost touch it -- much to Claire’s apparent horror.

 

“Oh, we try to  _ never _  use that key.” She remarked patronizingly, nearly swatting his hand away.

 

“Why not, Miss Mahoney?”

 

“Well, it’s too technical to explain to the lay mind.” Joss snorted not-so-quietly at this derision. “But, Miss Emmy doesn’t like it. She’s liable to act up and make a lot of rude noises.”

 

After saying this, it was only natural everyone in the room -- except for Miss Mahoney, that is -- to want to grab that little key and fling it across the room. Instead, they all forced themselves to laugh in a superficially polite manner, just waiting for it all to be over.

 

“Good morning, everyone.” What on Earth was Ingram doing here? With several businessmen trailing behind, no less? “All you boys know Mr. Finch, of course.”

 

Greetings were murmured as the new crowd formed in front of this machine.

 

“Well, gentlemen, there she is-- EMMARAC, the modern miracle.” Oh, Harold had to refrain with every fiber of his being  from  glaring at this. “Mr. Reese, would you mind explaining just how EMMARAC functions?”

 

“Not at all. Miss Mahoney, how’s everything?”

 

“Oh, Miss Emmy is digesting everything just beautifully, Mr. Reese.”

 

“Good. Now, gentlemen, the purpose of this machine is to free the worker--”

 

“You can say  _ that  _ again.” It was murmured, barely heard by anyone in the immediate vicinity. 

 

But, John received it loud and clear.

 

“-- to free the worker from routine and repetitive tasks, and liberate his time for more important work. Now, for example, you see all those books there and the ones up there? Well, every fact in them has been fed into Emmy. Now,” He looked at Claire curiously, “What do you have there?”

  
“This is  _ Hamlet.” _

 

“That’s  _ Hamlet _ ?” It seemed to be less than a hundred index cards put together.

 

“Yes, the entire text.”

 

“In code, of course.” John explained, before continuing to elaborate. “Now, these little cards create electronic impulses, which are accepted and retained by the machine. That way, if anyone calls up asking for a quotation from  _ Hamlet _ , the research worker types it into the machine here, Emmy goes to work, and the answer comes out here.”

 

“And it  _ never  _ makes a mistake.” Ingram stated proudly, causing John to awkwardly chuckle.

 

“Well-- that’s not entirely accurate. Emmy  _ can  _ make a mistake.”

 

Harold genuinely chuckled at this, hoping that said mistake would occur now so they could just go back to the way things were and he would never have to deal with Mr. Reese again.

 

“But,” John continued, “ _Only_ if the human element makes the mistake first.”

 

“Now, tell me, Harold. Has EMMARAC been helping you any?”

 

“Well, frankly, it hasn’t started to give yet, Mr. Ingram. For the past two weeks, we’ve just been feeding it information.” Harold crossed his arms at this, still not quite willing to outright bash this machine in front of all of these people. “But I think you could say that it will provide more leisure for more people.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Finch.”

 

“Not at all.” 

 

Those five seconds of conversation have probably been the most of a social exchange the two have had in the last two weeks.

 

“Now, is there any question one of you gentlemen would like to ask the machine?”

 

“I have a question.” John turned around at Harold, not as surprised at this audacity as he might've been once.

 

“Oh? And what is your question, Mr. Finch?”

 

“The spruce budworm.” Grace immediately straightened up at this, recognizing the topic. “How much damage is done annually to the American forest by the spruce budworm?”

 

It was only after everyone started to look back at EMMARAC that Harold allowed himself a small smile.

 

“That took me three weeks.” Grace murmured to him under her breath, quite shocked that Harold brought it up.

 

“I know, Grace, I know.” She could only stare at him in wonderment.

 

But, he was already back to facing the machine, quite ready to prove Mr. Reese wrong.

 

_ Now, let’s see how long Miss Mahoney and “Miss Emmy” will take. _

 

“How much damage,” Claire was loudly speaking as she typed along. “Is done annually to American forests by the spruce budworm?”

 

“What was the answer, Harold, remember?”

 

“$138, 464, 359 and, uh, some cents.”

 

“Well, now, let’s see what Emmy has to say.” The paper was torn and brought up for closer inspection. Harold and Grace were particularly interested to see exactly what this would say. 

 

“$138, 464, 359 and twelve cents.”

 

“Now, how long did that question take your department, Mr. Finch?”

 

“Oh, 45 minutes.” He smoothly lied, taken aback -- and  _quite_ frustrated -- by how quickly the information was found. 

 

John  _ knew  _ the man was lying through his teeth and just wanted this charade to stop. They held another awkward stare for only a few seconds, before it became time for the engineer to address the audience once again.

 

“Well, even at that,” He was now turning back to the other men. “You can see that this one operation alone saved your department forty-four minutes.”

 

“Excellent!” Ingram said approvingly. “And, now, I want these men to see the machine we’ve installed in Payroll.”

 

As the men walked back the workers of the Reference Department, John tried to meet Harold’s eyes one last time.

 

It didn’t happen.

 

“Well, now, that’s an entirely different operation.” Now the man was bringing up the rear, apparently taking the most time out of the group to leave the room. “It’s purely mathematical, you see.”

 

As he began to elaborate, the door closed. Shortly afterwards, Miss Mahoney left to grab something from the back.

 

Once again, the workers were left alone.

 

Until Leon decided to pay a visit to their no-longer-so-humble abode.

 

“Paychecks, everyone.” Harold stepped forward, greeting and thanking the man for the deliveryman. The envelopes were soon passed out to their respective employee.

 

But, nobody was inclined to open them. In fact, the team just stood there, blankly staring at them.

 

“All together, okay?”

 

Pink slips revealed themselves.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Huh. Not only that, they took out for Blue Cross again this week.”

 

“Well, now that I’ve got it, I feel better. At least I can stop worrying about the whole thing.”

 

“Sure.”  _Whatever you say_.

 

“How long does it take before you start collecting unemployment insurance?”

 

“Two weeks.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Ladies, let’s not get maudlin. We’ll show this bunch. We’ll open our own network.” Harold started marching back into his office. “After all, it’s gonna take a moving van to get me out of here.” He chuckled, leading his troop back into his office. “When I think of all the junk I’ve collected over the last eleven years.”

 

“I’ve got some cartons in the back.”

 

“I’ll help you.”

 

_._

 

Harold stood in the office next to Joss in silence, unable to quite get down to brass tacks just yet.

 

_ Eleven years _ …

 

But, then again, maybe this is just life reminding him that you don’t get to enjoy yourself in the end.

 

Either way, it was time to get back to business.

 

“All that stuff in the desk is mine personally.” 

 

“Well, the coffeepot is mine.” 

 

“ _ Oh _ , those books on the top shelf, I mustn’t forget them-- Joss!”

 

“What’s the matter?” Harold couldn’t quite explain. Joss followed his gaze, looking at all of the scribbles of Pi that adorned the walls.

 

_ I started this little project about a decade ago... _

 

Another sudden wave of indescribable emotion careened into the man at this all hit home once again. He could only continue to stare in stupefied silence.

 

Eventually, a comforting hand reached out to hold onto a trembling one.

 

“Wherever we go, Harold, we’ll find a place for it.”

 

Sameen and Grace chose to come back in only a few more seconds after this declaration was made, carrying cartons and amiable support.

 

“Well, here we are.”

 

“Oh, these are great.”

 

But, the sunny ray of optimism that is Grace Hendricks finally began to wilt.

 

“You know, even if we do get other jobs, we probably won’t be together.” She sniffled. “I’ll miss all of you terribly.”

 

“Don’t worry, Grace.” Joss was so good at soothing others. Her very manner was calming, her tone quite reassuring. “We’ll get together once a year regularly, like the Ziegfield girls.”

 

“Oh, there’s my phone!” 

 

“Your point?”

 

Well, since they were rather unable to grab it, that left Miss Claire Mahoney to step up to the phone. She had just returned to the main room.

 

“Shouldn’t somebody be answering the phone?” She shouted over to Mr. Finch’s office.

 

“Yes, dear, go right ahead!” Mr. Finch said ever so kindly from his office.

 

Claire did not appreciate this. It was not her job to do the layman’s work of answering phones and listening to requests, it was her mission to make sure Emmy was well taken care of.

  
And, most terribly for Claire, she just about to understand exactly  _ why _ she wasn't quite cut out for Reference Work in about five minutes or so….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claire is undoubtedly out of character at times in this piece, for which I have explanation:
> 
> The lady she is taking after from the film -- Miss Warriner -- is someone who blindly follows her cause to the end. In this regard, I see Claire in her -- they’re both so very fixed in their ways, to the point where they refuse to accept any changes to the way their world runs. Therefore, their core characteristics are similar, even though Miss Warriner’s mannerisms tend to more affronted. Those mannerisms are also more so the ones I’ll bringing into Claire -- instead of the reverse.
> 
> Now, I must say, this lovely little tale is probably going to be wrapped up in about a chapter or two. The good news is, I certainly won't be finishing this on a cliff-hanger :)
> 
> [Now, Relevance on the other hand... ;) -- kidding, kidding!]
> 
> Till next time! :)


	12. Emmy's Curfew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, most terribly for Claire, she just about to understand exactly    
>  __  
>  why   
>    
>  she would never be cut out for Reference Work in about five minutes or so….

“Does the king of the  _ what  _ drive an automobile?” Claire's eyes widened comically as the caller repeated the name. “The Watusis. Would you mind spelling that, please?”

 

Unbeknownst to Claire, all of the other Reference Department workers were sneaking back into the main room. Harold was unusually giddy in his eavesdropping, Joss followed right behind him with a knowing smirk, Grace was sending quite a look herself, Shaw was sneering at Mahoney with great ease.

 

And all four of them were silently mouthing out the spelling to “Watusis” as poor Miss Mahoney was trying to repeat it once again.

“Uh, what exactly are ‘Watusis’?” At this, Harold grinned and sat down in a nearby chair -- content to let the woman struggle. He gestured for Joss to lean on one of the arm rest and for the rest of the women to just watch.

 

“ _ King Solomon’s Mines _ ?” Then a lightbulb seemed to come to life in the puzzled woman’s eyes. Oh, the tall natives that were in the movie! And you want to know if the king drives an automobile?” The lightbulb dropped out in another heartbeat. “Uh, where would I find that? Oh, the  _ Herald Tribune.  _ Well, just one moment. Hold the phone. Uh, I-- I’ll get that for you.”

 

She primly walked over to EMMARAC, getting the machine ready for the question. There was a little trouble with the spelling, she had to mouth the words out, as she began to type in the question.

 

That’s when the phone at Joss’s desk rang.

 

Now stuck between answering the original caller or picking up the new one, she sent a reprimanding look over at the other workers -- having just remembered their existence.

 

They weren’t going to budge, so she went to pick up the second phone.

 

“Hello? Yes?” The door to the main room opened. “I-- I don’t know -- would you mind repeating that?” 

 

But then she saw her savior in a suit and immediately waved a hand to get his attention. 

 

“Oh, Mr. Reese, would you mind taking this, please? I’m on the other phone.”

 

“Sure. Where’s everyone else?”

 

“Here we are, Mr. Reese.” Harold proudly said to the man, still unwilling to get up from his chair. John did a double-take at this, not really sure as to what was going on before picking up the phone.

 

“Hello. What’s the information you wanted?” He paused, trying to hear the speaker over EMMARAC. “Corfu?”

 

Once he received confirmation, he turned back to his helper.

 

“All available statistics on Corfu, Miss Mahoney.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He returned back to the phone.

 

“We’re getting that information for you. Just hang on.”

 

He walked over to the machine, sending a glance in Harold’s direction. The man only waved him on so as to retrieve the information from EMMARAC.

 

John was not pleased.

 

And he was about to be even less pleased.

 

“‘The  _ Herald Tribune,  _ November 10th, 1950, page 39’. What’s this, Miss Mahoney?”

 

“Oh, I had a question on the other phone about the King of the Watusis.”

 

“That’s wrong information.” Harold pointed out from the corner, almost clicking his tongue in disbelief.

 

John merely sent him another look -- this one resembling a glare.

 

And then he went back to the original caller.

 

“Hello? Now, uh, what was the information you wanted?”

 

“Joss,” Harold murmured sharply, seeing this as a divine opportunity to prove how useful humanity still could be. “ _ Tribune  _ Index, last four back copies. Let’s show him what people can do. Sameen,” She immediately stood at complete attention at this. “Corfu.”

 

John was still on the line with the original caller.

 

“Well, as far as we know, it’s the  _ Herald Tribune _ , November 10th, 1950.” Harold stepped forward at this, cackling on the inside.

 

“I’ll tell you what you’ll get on that date-- a review of the movie  _ King Solomon’s Mines. _ ”

 

“The other phone, Mr. Reese!”

 

“Please hold,” He said to the caller before turning completely around to get to the other phone. “What’s the matter with everyone today?”   
  


“As if you didn’t know.” Grace snipped reprovingly, barely refraining from delving into insubordination.

 

“What-- Hello. Well, ju-just be patient. We’re trying to get the information for you.” Harold had to admit, it was almost endearing to watch the confident man stutter. But he was still miffed with the whole situation, so emphasis on “almost”. “Hang on, will you?”

 

He turned once again to the only other person dealing with EMMARAC in the room.

 

“Corfu, Miss Mahoney.”

 

“It’s coming out now.”

 

Harold’s grin morphed into a delighted smirk as he maneuvered himself to almost be in John’s way. The migratory engineer still managed to avoid the reference librarian, but just barely as he approached the machine.   
  


“‘Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer has sent its cameras and crew into Kenya, East Africa, is coming up with a whopping good picture.’” At this, Harold could barely keep from chortling at the errors.

 

“Yes, I can see that picture again.” He wryly remarked, tickled by the mistakes being made. He had a funny feeling that by the end of this, John would be begging for a different set-up -- especially if this is supposed to be EMMARAC at its best.

 

“This is the wrong classification, Miss Mahoney.” He reprimanded, ignoring the Head of Reference who was now leaning against the machine with obvious ease.

 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“How are we doing on Corfu?” Harold asked, leaning over John’s shoulder. “‘Introduced into England by William the Conqueror-- a bell rung every evening.”

 

“Not ‘Curfew’, Miss Mahoney,  _ Corfu! _ ”

 

“I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t understand the spelling.”

 

Fortunately, there were four competent workers in the office. And, one of them was now returning from her pursuit of information.

 

“Miss Shaw, give the caller our information on Corfu.”

 

“‘The island of Corfu is off the coast of Albania near the mouth of the Adriatic. Scenery beautiful, climate pleasant, soil fertile…” She continued to rattle off the details as Harold turned back to the machine.

 

“Let’s see what little Emmy has to say--  _ Hello! _ ”

“What the devil is this?” The machine was now spewing out a very long line of paper, but it didn’t seem to be done just yet.

 

“It’s the poem, ‘Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight’. Isn’t that nice?” Well, dramatic readings were always a blast for Harold to do. And, Miss Shaw was done with her phone call. 

 

So Harold went for it, over-the-top gestures and all.

 

"'Cromwell will not come till sunset,' and her lips grew strangely white

As she breathed the husky whisper:--

Curfew must not ring to-night."

 

“Mr. Reese, what can I do?” 

 

“Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,”

 

“Nothing.” He said as his eyes stuck to Harold’s movements like glue. “You know you can’t interrupt EMMARAC in the middle of a sequence.”

 

“As within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.”

 

“Yes but Mr. Reese--”

 

“Quiet! Just listen.”  
  


_ “She had listened _ while the judges read without a tear or sigh:

 

“At the ringing of the Curfew,  **_Basil Underwood must die_ ** .”

 

“Uh, how long does this go on?”

 

“That old poem has about 80 stanzas to it.”

 

“Where are we now?”

_  
"Awful_ is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell."She has reached the topmost ladder; o'ver her hangs the great dark bell;

Lo, the ponderous tongue is swing,--'t is the hour of Curfew now,

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow."

 

The phone at Grace’s desk was now screaming for attention.

 

_**"Shall she let it ring?"** _

 

John shakes his head in response, as though Harold were not just reciting a poem. And, as though Harold would actually listen to him.

 

“No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light,”

 

He began to prance forward, allowing himself to get the most bang for his buck in this moment.

 

“As she _springs_ , and grasps it firmly,—

 

Harold does not bellow. He instead proudly finishes off the dramatic stanza, speaking firmly into the phone.

 

**_“Curfew shall not ring to-night!”_ **

 

He paused, glancing back at the phone and setting it down.

 

“They hung up.” The man said, as though utterly surprised any sane human being would have done so. “And, I know another one!”

 

But, Joss was already on her way back, information held proudly in her hands. And, out of respect to a fellow colleague, Harold refrained from any more recitations.

 

“King Watusi does drive a specially built 1954 Pontiac. You’re welcome. He bought it with the money he got making the movie. You’re welcome.”

 

And that’s when Miss Mahoney made her final mistake:

 

She grabbed the red key nobody was ever supposed to remove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) Figured I'd get a little chapter out before life got temporarily in the way again. Though, have no fear, this little story will be completed!
> 
> Till next time ♥️


	13. "The human element -- entirely unpredictable."

The machine promptly exploded into a cacophony of shrill bells, blaring alarms, and screeching beeps. Paper that was meant to be provide answers rapidly swam out of the dispenser, little tools embedded in the machinery were flung out at random, smoke was gushing out into the air, and--

 

“Good heavens!”

 

“What have you done?”

 

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” To say Miss Mahoney was becoming a blubbering mess was a severe understatement.

 

“Now, hold on a minute. Calm down.” John Reese was fantastic at many things. Calming distraught people was not one of them. “You know you have to tell me what went wrong. I can’t fix it unless--”

 

“ _ I don’t know what I did!”  _ She shouted over the noise. “I don’t know! It’s your machine, not mine!”

 

“Is this thing supposed to be smoldering?”

 

“Don’t you dare touch that machine!” For even when dear, sweet Emmy was spiralling out of control, Claire still felt a personal sense of responsibility when it came to stopping the Head of Reference from any form of interference.

 

“Now, Claire, can you please stop crying?” As though that would ever work on a sobbing individual. But, at least he was trying? “We need to be level-headed in order to fix your mistake.”

 

“ _ My  _ mistake?” She gasped in disbelief. “There’s nothing wrong between me and EMMARAC. Ever since I got here you’ve all been trying to sabotage me! You all hate me! I’ve been forced to work in an atmosphere of hatred and suspicion! It’s all your doing, Mr. Finch, you did this!”

 

Harold had been enjoying the scene with unbridled glee until the accusations came flying. But, Claire wasn’t done. 

 

After glaring daggers at Harold, Miss Mahoney turned on John -- sharply pointing fingers to emphasize her next points.

 

“And you’re just as bad as they are!” She proceeded to rage out of the office, at this point screaming. “I don’t know what I did to that stupid machine and at this point  _ I DON’T CARE! _ ”

 

They all stared in shock for a moment. 

 

Well, shock mixed with immense satisfaction depending on who you were.

 

But, one of them just couldn’t let the drama of the morning stop him from doing his job.

 

“I have to stop this thing and try to figure out what she did.” John muttered to himself, turning back to examine the controls of the machine.

 

Harold let his hands sink into his pocket for a moment in consternation, his gaze dropping to the floor in curiousity. 

 

“Would this have anything to do with this?” He had bent over to retrieve that little red tool off the ground, remembering Miss Mahoney’s earlier warning about never ever using that device.

 

“Yes, yes. Thanks!" John grabbed it out of the proffered hand, eagerly turning back around to face EMMARAC. “Does anyone have a little piece of wire?”

 

Harold came to the rescue once again: he still carried those hair pins in case any of the women needed one.

 

“How about this?”

 

John turned around at this, smiling as he took the pin from Harold. The two proceeded to walk forward, once again examining the workings and looking for some sort of solution.

 

“I hope he can’t fix it.” A hopeful murmur was given to a fellow conspirator, who was nodding in eager agreement. As much as nobody wanted EMMARAC to explode or something, they also didn't want to face reality.

 

The blaring continued, the shrieks insisted on occurring, but this time new sounds careened into the air. And slowly EMMARAC began to wind down as a loud crashing sound emitted from the machine. The two men looked over at the machine, the women let their shoulders slump in dejection at it being fixed, and Harold couldn’t help but let one more witty comment escape,

 

“Peace. It’s wonderful.”

 

The workers could only hope that EMMARAC was now out of commision. But John’s demeanor told them otherwise.

 

“The human element -- entirely unpredictable.

 

Speaking of, Leon was trekking back into the room - a thick envelope in hand.

 

“Mr. Reese, this is for you.”

 

“Me?” The team looked over in interest at his confusion.

 

“Sign here, please.” Looks like Leon wasn’t really in the mood to be anything other than professional towards the man.

 

And there was a good reason why.

 

“Well, this is my last pick-up, ladies. So, I’d better say goodbye.”

 

“Oh, Mr. Tao, not you, too!” Harold sharply fixed John with an accusatory stare, his hands now on his hips in frustration. “Did you also invent some kind of machine that carries mail?”

 

“Huh?” The phone began to rang once more, but all of the workers seemed content to ignore it. “Isn’t anyone going to answer the telephone?”

 

“You forget, we don’t work here anymore.” Joss said, giving him her own pointed stare as she crossed her arms.

 

John gaped at this, suddenly stupefied by that remark.

 

“You don’t work here? I don’t understand, what’d you do?”

 

“Will somebody hand me a blunt instrument?” Shaw groaned at this, and Grace looked as though she were seriously considering it as the others started chattering their disbelief.

 

“What did we do?” 

 

"Are you kidding me?" 

 

"Is he being serious?"

 

As John was waiting for any form of explanation, he opened his envelope… to discover a familiar pink slip.

 

“‘Good night, sweet prince.’” Harold quoted, delight dripping into his smirk and absolutely drenching his words.

 

But, John was not happy.

 

Not happy.

 

“I’m not even on the payroll!” And then what they had been implying finally made sense. “Wait, let me get this stra-- did you all get fired?”

 

“That's quite correct, Mr. Reese.” The level of sarcasm one could reach after being “let go of” was quite inspiring to say the least.

 

“Why?” He demanded, seeming far more riled up than they anticipated.

 

“‘Why’, Mr. Reese? Why, indeed.” As though the man had no idea.

 

The phone continued to ring out, not caring that everyone in the room had now been officially fired.

 

“Well, I can tell you what the grapevine says it is.” Leon offered after a moment, instantaneously garnering their attention. “It’s that big merger.”

 

“What do you know about the merger?”

 

“It’s in the afternoon paper. We’re joining with  _ The Atlantic  _ network. So I guess they’re letting most of us out.”

 

“I know all about that merger.” John sharply interjected before tempers could get the worse of them. “That wasn’t meant to have people fired. It was supposed to do just the opposite!”

 

Now, John was the one beginning to get riled up. Now, John was the one who wanted answers.

 

So, he stormed over to the ringing phone, ignoring the rest of them. 

 

“Hello.” He greeted icily, in an almost threatening manner. “I have an urgent call to make to Ingram. So, it would be in your best interest to  _ get off  _ this line and--”

 

“ **_You_ ** _ want to speak to Mr. Ingram?”  _ Miss Groves’s irate voice cut him off.  _ “He’s been trying to reach you! What’s the matter with everyone down there?”  _

 

But, she still brought Ingram up on the intercom so he and John were able to communicate.

 

_ “Yes?”  _ Harold never expected to witness the day where his boss’s boss would sound so vexed. But now that it was here, he was still too shellshocked to even pay close attention.

 

“Ingram,” Instead of yelling, John grew even colder. “You broke a promise to me.” 

 

Everyone stared at the man, still astounded and rather unsure of what exactly was going on.

 

“Did you know that everyone in Research has been fired?”

 

_ “The whole darn building’s been fired!”  _ The irate retort was loud enough for everyone to hear, and they realized that even Ingram had to have been given a pink slip.

 

But,  _ why? _

 

_ “That crazy foolish machine of yours in Payroll went berserk this morning and gave  _ **_everybody_ ** _ a pink slip!” _

 

“That’s impossible, it just couldn’t happen.” John said, but the anger was beginning to drain out of him the longer he listened. “All right, all right, sure. Right away.”

 

As the phone was put down Harold bolted towards the man, no longer able to restrain his curiosity.

 

“What happened, Mr. Reese?”

 

“EMMARAC down in Payroll.” Came the terse response. “Mistake.”

 

“What mistake?”

 

John looked at all of them, clearly kicking himself at the very thought.

 

“It fired everybody in the building.”

 

“Some mistake!”

“You mean we’re not really fired, Mr. Reese?”

 

“No. Nobody’s fired, Miss Hendricks.”

 

“Oh, golly, that was a close shave!” Leon said in relief before he retreated back out of the room.

 

“So, if we’re not fired, what’s going to happen when EMMARAC takes over?” Joss asked, still unwilling to believe it was going to be all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows from here on out.

 

“Yes, what will happen?” Harold chimed in, unable to believe it either.

 

“EMMARAC is not going to take over. It was never intended to take over. And it was never intended to replace you.” At this point, he was looking solely at Harold, simultaneously relieved he could tell the trust and yet so very frustrated that these omissions had existed in the first place.

 

“EMMARAC is here to free your time for research. It’s here to help you.”

 

_ I’ve been trying to help you this entire time.  _

 

_ I never wanted to get rid of you. _

 

“Why, why didn’t you say so, Mr. Reese?”

 

“Because of that grapevine of yours, that’s why.” But, he wasn’t really frustrated with anyone anymore. “They didn’t want that  _ Atlantic  _ stock to go up while the merger was going. But, now there’s going to more work here than ever before. As a matter of fact, they’re adding a few more women to the team. I just hope they’re as good as you are.”

 

Tension left every worker in the room as he had continued his explanation. Faint, hopeful smiles emerged -- beams of joyous disbelief -- and even Harold was losing his abnormally cynical attitude.

 

“Moral: never assume.” He softly spoke, sheepishly looking over at John. They continued to stare at each other while Grace, Sameen, and Joss began to walk back over to Harold’s office.

 

“We’ll put your stuff back.” Joss said to her boss, though both John and Harold were still absolutely oblivious.

 

“Never assume.” John repeated, as they continued to exchange stares.

 

_ Do you forgive me? _

 

_ Why, yes. Yes, I do. Do you forgive me? _

 

**_Always._ **

 

It was at this point that Sameen’s phone stole their attention, dictating that they go back to work. But, this time, John walked over to the phone and Harold set about cleaning up EMMARAC’s space.

 

“Reference, Mr. Finch, speaking.” John said, a mischievous tone faintly emanating into the telephone. Harold could only look up, shaking his head in amusement as he walked back over to pick up the phone. 

 

But, John wasn’t handing it over just yet.

 

“What? Uh, purely theoretical, of course.”

 

“What do they want, John?” The man beamed at this, as Harold was so wrapped up in joy he forgot his formalities. Still, the engineer couldn't bring himself to break the moment of unofficial trust by pointing this out. He merely repeated the question at hand:

 

“What is the total weight of the Earth?” Harold paused, a slight frown making its way back. 

 

“Who wants to know?”

 

“Who wants to know?” John repeated back into the phone before glancing back up. “Promotion.”

 

“Well, that’s the sort of thing you can spend  _ months _ finding.” Harold paused, wracking his brain and looking about the room for some sort of answer.

 

He found one.

 

The Head of Reference took a look at EMMARAC, before whipping back around to face John, a silent question lining his face.

 

“We might as well give her a crack at it.” He said, causing Harold to grin.

 

“Tell him you’ll call him back.” John nodded at this. 

 

“Call you back.”

 

The receiver was set down with ease -- but not hung up, and they both shared a look of delight.

 

“Here we go.”

 

Immediately, they both went to work.

 

“Now, the first step is to make sure she’s awake,” John spoke as he brought EMMARAC back to life.  

 

“Okay.”

 

“Now, type it out.” Harold paused a second, a little flustered when it came to officially verbalizing his request. 

 

“Err,”  Harold paused a second, a little flustered when it came to officially verbalizing his request. 

 

“What is the total weight of the Earth?”

 

“Now, the totaling key.” Friendly beeps emitted as the totaling key was pressed, lightly echoing around the room. Harold freely laughed at this, no longer wary about such sounds.

 

“Bope-bope-pe-do to you!” He said, a twinkle of laughter sprinkling his words. John smiled even more so at this, walking around to the spot where the answer would be inked out onto paper for all of the world to see. The migratory engineer glanced down at said answer, chuckling.

 

“Is something the matter, John?” Harold inquired, wondering if he made a mistake.

 

“It’s asking you a question.”

 

“What’s the question?” Now he was eager once more, already hopping out of his chair and stepping around the main console to look over John’s shoulder.

 

“‘With or without, people?’” Harold stopped at this, processing the question. He beamed with pride, letting his own chuckle flitter into the room at this.

 

“Good job, my dear, good job!” He said, patting the machine gently as though he were congratulating a member of his team. It was far too endearing an act for John who couldn’t help but want to do more than just watch this sweet interaction

 

“May I tell you that that is the nicest compliment EMMARAC has ever received?” He stated, offering a congratulatory hand while looking directly into Harold’s eyes. Said eyes glowed with appreciation, graciously accepting the hand.

 

“You may.”

 

They continued to beam at one another, not quite able to let go of each other’s hand.

 

Unfortunately, it had to come to a temporary halt as John remembered his new task.

 

“Well, I better go down to Payroll and see how they’re doing.” He let his hand drop, quite unwillingly so. “You wouldn’t have to have another one of hairpins that I could use, would you?”

 

“Oh! Yes, indeed.” He retrieved another one from his pocket. “There you are.”

 

“Thank you.” But it was more than just gratitude for the hairpin. They continued to use this exchange to look at one another for a good few more moments.

 

“Things are probably going crazy down in Payroll, Mr. Reese.” Harold weakly mentioned after a point, unsure of what he would do next -- seeing as how ecstatic he felt now.

 

“You’re right as usual, Mr. Finch.”

 

And, so, John turned on his heel and proceeded to head out, the hairpin clutched as though it were the key to everything. He was, surprisingly enough, interrupted by the entrance of that little old lady he had been so confused about all those weeks ago. She silently ripped up her pink slip in front of him, throwing it in his face before turning on her own heel and defiantly walking out.

 

This time, there was more than one other person in the room who reacted to her audacity -- judging by the snickers and snorts that broke out from this moment. John turned around one last time to see all of the team -- Team Machine, he now humorously referred to them as -- come into the room with empty cartons and boxes.

 

Their arrival was his cue to leave though, especially since Harold was already heading back into his office to make sure everything was in order.

So, John opened the door, surprised to see Pierce leaning over the water fountain outside the lawyer's office.

 

“Pierce. How are you?”

 

“Hmm?” The man seemed unusually on edge,  “I’m all right, but it’s been a fascinating morning to say the least. Aspirin?” John didn’t really care for details, already pressing the button for the elevator.

 

“No, thank you.”

 

Only a few seconds later did the door to the elevator open to reveal an incredibly bored Fusco and an overly eager Monica Cutler.

 

“Hello, Mr. Reese.” She greeted without hint of coldness. Rather, the woman seemed rather content that he was  _ not  _ currently in Harold’s office and proceeded to strut past him with immense ease.

 

Fusco watched the scene in interest,  _ accidentally _ holding the elevator door open for a few more seconds. But it was no matter -- there was nobody else in the lift and the people who would want it could wait a few more seconds.

 

John stared after the woman, clearly debating with himself. Pierce was raptly watching the man as well, intriguement oozing out of him.

 

Now, as much as he may or may not have wanted to, Lionel refused the urge to cheer as John slowly began to march back into the Reference Department.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, so I couldn't quite finish it just yet. There's only one more chapter left, I promise! But yeah :) It'll be done within the week -- if not sooner.
> 
> Till next time <3


	14. And, What Exactly Is the Moral of the Story, Mr. Reese?

Logan Pierce was not ashamed to admit that he loved to eavesdrop. To catch the desperately clutched secrets of others always brightened his day. To observe his peers’ mistakes never failed to tickle his heart. And, to witness egregious social errors quite frankly warmed his core more so than anything else ever could.

 

So, naturally, when John Reese began to march back in the Reference Department it was a clear invitation to carefully slink over to the door. It was obviously a tantalizing request to press his ear against the translucent glass and let the inevitable shouting that would soon emerged from the other side of the door be caught by his--

 

“Oh, Pierce!”

 

Said door opening to reveal an overly eager Joss Carter was  _not_ what he was trying to catch. Not in the slightest.

 

But, just like Logan Pierce, Joss Carter was also one to take advantage of opportunities. She may not be of a nature so outrightly manipulative but she was one to explore golden opportunities.

 

So, when John Reese walked in and spontaneously offered to buy celebratory drinks for the lot of them, she was not one to refuse.

 

Especially not when she noticed that determined glint in his eyes.

 

And, oh yeah, the fact that his gaze never left Harold’s office -- even as he handed her money. That was another factor that added to her own enthusiastic stubbornness.

 

So, when she opened the door to reveal the shameless eavesdropper she took it in stride. After all, she wasn’t going to let some sleazy lawyer ruin this moment.

 

“Pierce, come with us. Reese is buying!”

 

He tried to protest, but Sameen and Grace were already pushing him out of the door.

 

“But, I don’t want a drink in the middle of the day!” It was all very sweet -- aka, almost whiny -- but she swiped his protests away with a pleasant smile and a knowing look.

 

“You can have a malted.”

 

_._

 

Monica Cutler was no fool. Nor was she unintelligent. If she were either of those, she would still be at Miss Groves’s or -- worse still -- Harold’s pay grade. Furthermore, if she were either of those things she undoubtedly wouldn’t even be in the building.

 

Now, not being a fool and being an individual of intelligence usually meant getting exactly what she wanted.

 

And exactly what she wanted meant _exactly_ that.

 

“Harold,” She dipped the name in honey as she walked in the door. “I think it’s time we talked.”

 

Because, as much as she loved the man -- and she did, in her own special way -- she really was beginning to doubt his affection for her. She was beginning to dislike his complete lack of focus that had only began when a certain “migratory engineer” entered the office.

In essence, she was not getting what she wanted.

 

So, that meant that it would soon be time for him to make a decision.

 

And while she hoped it was the correct one, she truly was ready to accept any decision he made. And, yes, even if she’d also potentially become angry with his stupidity over the matter she’d still accept his decision..

 

_._

 

Now, if Lionel Fusco is trapped in some elevator, the gang and Pierce are on their way to getting tastefully intoxicated, and Monica in Harold’s office with the man in question… who does that leave?

 

Oh, yes. That’s right.

 

Mr. Reese.

 

Who was currently examining a piece of paper dear Emmy just gave him. He smiled at the machine, enjoying the loud “Bope-bope-pe-do” sound that Harold had just been admiring only a few minutes ago.

 

Said admiration for the machine turned into admiration for the man who had been previously operating its controls. And while that admiration would make for a fantastic drift into fantasy about the man, now was not the time.

 

So, the machine was turned off for a moment as John looked up into Harold’s office.

 

He immediately frowned.

 

There was nothing really wrong with the situation. Except for the fact that Monica was aggressively gesturing, clearly dominating the conversation. Oh, and Harold almost seemed to shrink into himself as though he didn’t dare to say anything.

 

And, honestly didn’t seem like it was going to get any better. Now, seeing as how John really despised it when Harold seemed to be bullied and pushed around like this, there just had to be a solution.

 

So, he purposefully walked forward towards the office, opening the door.

 

“Mr. Finch.” He said calmly, watching the man turn around in surprise. John didn’t dare acknowledge the flutter of hope that reinstated Harold’s posture, nor the weary concern reflecting in Harold’s eyes at John’s entrance.

 

“What do you want?” Monica asked in a patronizing manner, already dismissing him by not even bothering to meet his gaze.

 

“Could you come out here and give me a hand with EMMARAC, please?”

 

“Look, Mr. Reese, does it have to be now?” Dismissal was turning into flat-out vexation: clearly Monica was still not allowing her love to utter a single word -- much to the two men’s frustration.

 

“Now or never.” John said resolutely, This was Harold’s cue to speak.

 

Or, at least, stammer.

 

“Uh, well -- well, I won’t be more than a minute, Monica.”

 

“Pardon us,” John said for Harold’s sake as he closed the door on the irritated woman. The closing of the door ensued a sudden return to normality, an instantaneous cling to old frustrations to hide the new fears.

 

“Really, Mr. Reese, if Emmy’s going to be this much trouble then I hardly think --”

 

_Time to stop this train before it crashes into the building._

 

“Well, it’s actually my fault. It’s on account of this question I asked her. Now, if you should to say me, ‘What question?’ I would tell you.” John paused in this explanation, leaving it purposefully cryptic as he stepped back over to EMMARAC’s console.

 

“What question?” Harold wasn’t really in the mood to play games, but this was in a way a form of research. And, so, he’d play along until he wrangled some sort of answer.

 

But John wasn’t going to outright tell him.

 

“We’ll try it again.” This time, it was the engineer that sat down at the machine and the reference librarian looked over his shoulder as he began to type. There was a hesitation -- an unexpected feeling that emerged from everyone in the room.

 

But, even if he couldn’t propose marriage he certainly had to try something.

 

“Should Harold Finch be willing to put up with Monica Cutler?” Harold froze, not able to believe the question being asked. He even turned sharply back to his colleague in confusion, checking the typed words to make sure he wasn’t in some sort of dream.

 

“Wa--wait a moment, Mr. Reese. I thought you said this machine can’t evaluate.”

 

“That’s right, Harold.” A facetious grin that held a sheepish tone emerged. “It can’t. It can only repeat the information that has been fed into it by the human element.”

 

And EMMARAC was already echoing her earlier programming with ease causing John to look up over at the paper now sliding out of the machine.

 

“What does it say?” As though he didn’t already know the answer.

 

The Head of Reference began to walk towards it as though in a trance but forced himself to stop. His feet came to a jolting stop as a glare whirled around to face the current typist.

 

“You know perfectly well what it says.” Piercing eyes met still-not-quite sheepish ones.

 

“Ah, yeah, That’s the same answer I got last time. Shall we ask it another question?” But. John was already getting ready to type, not waiting for an answer. “Good.”

 

At this, Harold paused once again. His eyes twitched into a not-quite unwilling smile as wistful happiness tickled his lips.

 

“Should Harold Finch be willing to put up with John Reese?”

 

The smile grew to fight the reproving tension that Harold’s body had been carrying.

 

And, as the man stepped over to the paper, the smile only continued to expand.

 

“‘N-O’.” John blinked at this, confused to say the least.

 

“‘No’?”

 

“See for yourself.” Harold ripped the paper off and carried it back to John with the hint of yearning. “‘No’.”

 

He could see for himself.

 

But migratory engineers lived to be put under pressure. To have to work on the fly.

 

“Well, I told you myself that EMMARAC could make a mistake.” Harold let a faint sigh escape at this, a sigh that mixed longing with dreaded acceptance. He shook his head, momentarily looking away from John’s earnest gaze.

 

“That may be so, Mr. Reese, but not Harold Finch. It would never work.”

 

“Why?”

 

At this, Harold looked back at his friend -- the one person he had felt so strongly for in the last few months -- and sadly smiled.

 

“Because this is 1957, John.” The sadness grew in the silence, beginning to constrict the desire into something far more indifferent..

 

“And?”

 

Harold blinked.

 

“Well, uh,” Couldn’t the man see that this would never work in today’s society? That they’d be outcasts of sorts, that the world would never accept them for who they truly were?

 

“You know, Harold, for someone of your intelligence you seem to be having a difficult time with telling me why this wouldn't work."

 

Harold glanced back at this, still unable to quite believe it’d be possible that John was being quite serious.

 

“Well, in any case, you’re in love with her.” He gestured sharply to the machine, still desperately refusing to even entertain any other notion. “She’d always come first in life. If anything went wrong with her, you’d forget me like that.”

 

Like Monica and so many others did in life.

 

He put his stare back towards the ground, knowing that with these facts now presented he most certainly proved his point.

 

“I could care less about that damn machine, Harold.”

 

Wonders would never cease.

 

“It could blow up right now and it wouldn’t bother me."

 

To say Harold was dumbfounded in this moment was to say New York got a little crowded at times.

 

But, because this was Harold, the man simply had to respond.

 

“Is that so, Mr. Reese?” He immediately reached out for that red tool, the one that should never be messed with, and calmly removed it from the machine.

 

All hell proceeded to break loose.

 

John jolted at the sudden commotion, clearly trying to stay true to his word as the whirring picked up, as the cacophony swung back into action and the shrills began to scream again.

 

“See?” The engineer glanced over at another section of the console before turning back to the reference librarian. “It doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

 

That statement prompted a laugh, which provided a reason for the man to get out of his chair. It gave the two a reason to be only inches apart.

 

“You’re the only thing I care about.” John murmured, stepping forward and reaching a hand to start wrapping it around Harold’s waist. He leaned further in, catching the surprise and greeting it with passion,

 

But, he did have a job to complete.

 

And so a hand delved into a pocket to retrieve a hairpin instead of bringing the men into a tighter embrace.

 

“It’ll honestly only take a second.” The charismatic and apologetic smile was back in full force, “And we wouldn’t want to create attention by actually blowing up the building, now would we?”

 

He was already heading over to properly fix the machine. Harold laughed again at this, not really all that offended all things considered.

 

“I’ll wait,” Harold calmly said, truly content to do as such.

 

Now, unbeknownst to them, Monica was beginning to realize once again that she was definitely not a fool. That she was indeed an ambitious woman of high intelligence and that she deserved to get what she want.

 

And, clearly, she no longer wanted Harold.

 

So she left through the back elevator, not pleased about any of this but also not willing to get mixed up in any of it.

 

But, back to the two individuals who were now bringing Emmy and their relationship back to a more even keel.

 

"Looks like everything's in order."

 

"Yes, well, that would be only one of two prob--"

 

Harold glanced over at his office to check in on Monica by this point but she was long gone. And due to the surprise of not seeing her there, he was pleasantly shocked by John sneaking back over to give a proper embrace.

 

"Now, I do believe I left you waiting -- something that should be avoided at all costs."

 

A breathless stare, a knowing smirk.

 

The embrace willingly tightened.

 

"Well, I suppose you do have impeccable timing on occasion, --"

 

"Harold?"

 

"Yes, Mr. R-- John?"

 

"Can I kiss you?" 

 

Several heartbeats of time passed at this.

 

But, the Head of Reference -- stubborn as he could be with denial -- knew that all forms of research were sometimes necessary to discover the facts. 

 

And he really needed to find out if dear Emmy had indeed made a mistake.

 

"You may." 

 

It would be this particular action that would promptly inform Harold Finch that he would  _always_  be willing to "put up" with John Reese.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) After so much silence I'm pleased to say this little piece is now completed. As always, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter and the story as a whole.
> 
> Till next time ❤

**Author's Note:**

> Now, for those of you who don’t know, this fic is totally inspired by two reasons:
> 
> First off, the 1957 movie Desk Set -- featuring Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy -- is one of my all time favorites of theirs.
> 
> Second, because of the support I received on my tribute to it in Relevance, I decided to create this.
> 
> Nevertheless, I hope you’ve been enjoying this and that you have a nice day!


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